Christmas Revels Page 2

  "Sleeping with a cameraman is a sacrifice no one would ask of you," he agreed. "How long do you think this would take? I assume you want the production to be magical and exciting and intimate, not just a static record of a stage show."

  "Exactly." Sensing that he was weakening, she continued, "If you're willing, I'll buy you a plane ticket and you can stay in my guest room. This would only take a week or so. You can be home by Christmas, though if you'd like to try the holidays English style, it would be lovely to have you. You can borrow my family if you want marvelous people who will simultaneously make you feel welcome and drive you mad."

  He chuckled. "Sounds just like my family." The sprawling Marino home in Ohio would be full of kids and food and relatives who thought of him as the beloved oddball. They were proud of him, but he was a goose out of water, and a target for his mother, aunts, and sisters, all of whom wanted him to marry a nice, normal girl, not a Hollywood type, and settle down. He spent every Christmas fending off their good intentions. Mostly it was fun.

  But Jenny's job sounded like fun, too. How long had it been since he'd done any filming purely for the pleasure of it? He had been working like a lunatic for years, first taking any project he was offered to build up his credits, then, as his reputation grew, doing movies back to back to consolidate what he'd achieved.

  It would be wonderfully relaxing to do a project where multimillion-dollar budgets weren't resting on his shoulders. On the minus side, working with Jenny would be a mixed blessing. He loved being around her, and unless she had changed—and she didn't seem to have—she didn't have a snobbish bone in her.

  Unfortunately, he liked her a little too well. Prom queens—-did they have them in English schools?—didn't pair off with oddball technogeeks like him no matter how many years had passed. Hell, she was a friend and former lover of Kenzie Scott, superstar and possibly the handsomest man alive, while Greg was Joe Average at best. Their brief affair had been a fluke. She had made it clear that he was being offered a guest room, nothing more. If he recalled his trade gossip correctly, she was currently involved with some rich international businessman. Unavailable.

  But he was good at what he did, and quite capable of working with a woman he wanted and couldn't have. Shooting Morris dancers—what were Morris dancers?—and Christmas in England would be a nice change from his real life. Afterward he could fly home to Ohio. There was always leftover turkey when his mother was in charge of a kitchen. "Okay, Jenny, you've got a deal."

  "Wonderful!" The enthusiasm in her voice was enough to banish his regrets over more jet lag. "Do you have personal video equipment you'd like to use, or shall I rent some here? And if so, what would you like?"

  "I'll bring my digital camera, but are you sure you want to use video? Film is probably better from a commercial point of view."

  "True, but we can't afford the extra time and money film would take."

  "If I use 16mm instead of 35mm, the shooting time will be about the same as video. Don't worry about renting anything—I'll take care of getting the equipment. It's true that postproduction will take longer with film, but you'll have a finished product that will be easier to sell to TV, and will look good on DVD as well as video."

  "I defer to your professional judgment. After all, that's why I wanted you." Her rich voice warmed. "Thank you so much, Greg. You shan't regret this."

  He was sure she was right. To have regrets, there had to be a significant stake. This was just a little charity project. No consequences. Right?

  Right.

  JENNY hung up the phone. "I can't believe he agreed," she said to her companion.

  "Mrowrrrr."

  "Don't look so smug, Plato. You may be a philosopher who always knows what's going to happen, but I'm not. It's a miracle Greg is even available, and I thought for sure he'd turn me down. He won an Oscar, for heaven's sake." Absently she stroked the gray cat's short plushy fur. "You think I'm idiotic. Right again. Why else would I be talking to a cat?"

  Plato gave a lofty flick of his tail that said clearly that he was in perfect harmony with himself and simply couldn't understand human nerves.

  Restlessly Jenny began to pace her living room. An actor's life was odd and irregular by normal standards. The good parts were very, very good. The bad parts were horrid. One of the worst bits was having many friends, yet too often being alone. She had achieved a fair amount of success as a television actress, and was generally considered by the British viewing public to be quite the glamour girl. Her appearance on a man's arm at a public event would enhance his reputation.

  But being a famous man's wrist ornament didn't offer much for her. She stared out at the quiet West End street, where lights were beginning to shine mistily in the dusk. This near the winter solstice, days were short and nights were long. Very long, when one slept alone.

  When had she begun to tire of glamour? Not during the first flush of success; she'd been giddily happy and made a fool of herself more than once. She had even believed men who said they loved her when what they really meant was that they wanted to bed her. There had been some good times, but usually she would care too much, and be left weeping.

  Critically she studied her reflection in the darkened window. For an actress who was past her prime, she still looked rather well. A little rounder than her American counterparts, who tended to look like stick drawings, but few men minded that.

  Though she had learned early that a pretty girl could usually get what she wanted, her no-nonsense mother made sure little Jenny didn't let that go to her head. Her looks were a gift in the genetic lottery for which she was grateful, but couldn't claim credit.

  Talent was also a gift, source uncertain since everyone else in her family was normal. The only thing she could take personal credit for was the bloody hard work she'd put into her career, and the tenacity to keep going despite the chronic rejections that were part of a working actor's life.

  "Do you think Greg and I might end up going to bed together? That would be rather nice."

  Plato closed his golden eyes, bored. A bit of routine surgery in his youth had left him uninterested in gender politics.

  Jenny drew heavy curtains against the encroaching night and crossed to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She hadn't really been joking when she said that her "fair white body" was negotiable, and Greg's shock at her words was a little unflattering. Most men would have bantered with her, testing to see if she was serious, but Greg—Greg was different.

  The American movie they'd worked on had been something of a disaster—her first and last foray into Hollywood. He had been a second assistant camera operator, while she was a nervous ingenue making her first feature film. The script was weak, the director was a bellowing sadist, and the leading lady hated sharing the screen with another female who was younger and prettier.

  Jenny could have survived that, but she hadn't been able to handle the loss of a boyfriend she had hoped to marry. She had thought their relationship was rock solid, until the tabloids started running pictures of him and the French actress with whom he was having a torrid affair. The swine had been too much a coward to tell Jenny that he was tired of her, so he let the journalists do it for him. About the best thing that could be said of the experience was that her movie role called for her to cry a lot. That she had managed handily.

  No, the best thing about that movie had been Greg. His sympathy and kindness had been achingly welcome at a time when she had been desperate for comfort.

  Later she had felt guilty about using him to assuage the worst of her pain, but at the time she welcomed his lack of demands. He'd given her exactly what she wanted, with no strings attached. Just as their movie ended, she had received a heaven-sent BBC offer. Though she and Greg had planned to spend a quiet week at the beach recovering from the filming, instead he had cheerfully taken her to the airport and sent her off with a parting kiss and his best wishes. She flew home swearing never to return to Hollywood, and she hadn't. English show business had been much kinder
to her.

  The Christmas cards they exchanged always contained scrawled personal notes promising to get together when they were both in the same city and not too busy to socialize, but it never happened. Whenever she got his card—always a stunning photograph that he had taken himself— she would smile and wonder what might have happened if they had met when she wasn't suffering a broken heart. Greg was smart and funny and nice, with a rock solid steadiness that was increasingly attractive as the years—and the unreliable men—came and went.

  But maybe there would never have been a right time. Not only did they live in different countries, but both were ambitious, committed to succeeding in a brutal industry. They had done well, particularly Greg, who had hit the top of his field while not yet forty. Good directors of photography could go on for decades, and Greg would.

  Actresses had a much shorter shelf life. In the last year there had been two movie roles she had really wanted, but failed to win. Nor was she likely to find another television series as successful as Still Talking, since that had been one of the rare conjunctions of great writing, directing, and perfect casting. Her career had peaked, and the future held mostly playing character roles and mothers.

  She wouldn't mind that, as long as she continued to work. Television offers still came in now and then, and she could do more theater work; stage makeup and distance from the audience could preserve the illusion of youth for years. But her days as a glamorous, sexy young thing were numbered.

  Even if they hadn't been, she was tired of working so hard all the time. Eighteen-hour days, five a.m. calls, having to maintain her looks with the grim thoroughness of a pilot maintaining his airplane—sometimes she thought that digging ditches would be easier, though certainly less satisfying.

  Plato twined around her ankles insinuatingly. "Are you saying it's supper time?" She bent and scratched his head. "If Greg and I decide to have a fling for old times' sake, you won't be able to sleep on the bed for a few nights."

  The cat blinked his luminous golden eyes complacently. Even if he was briefly exiled from the bed, he would still be there after Greg left. "Mrrrowr?"

  She smiled wryly and scooped him into her arms, carrying him toward the kitchen. Her career was in decline and her private life a desert, but feline hunger was eternal.

  THREE

  GREG emerged wearily from customs at Heathrow. Rather than take Jenny up on her offer of a ticket, he had used his frequent flyer miles for a business-class seat that made the long flight from Los Angeles almost bearable. Since Jenny had said he'd be picked up, he glanced around, looking for a driver with a sign that said Marino.

  He was dodging around a woman when a familiar husky voice said, "Have I changed that much, Greg?"

  Startled, he looked down and saw Jenny's vivid blue eyes under a stylish drooping hat. Her shining dark hair was pulled back and tied with a scarf that matched her blue and green sweater, and she wore little if any makeup. The effect was casually elegant, in an unobtrusive way that wouldn't draw unwanted attention.

  Damn, he'd forgotten the power of those eyes at close range. Just looking at her made his heart accelerate and his palms cramp. Afraid he was staring like an idiot, he said, "You do incognito pretty well."

  "I try." She took his arm with easy friendliness and began guiding them through the airport crowds. "When you got your Oscar, I saw that the beard was gone, but you've taken off quite a chunk of hair since then, haven't you? This is a nice length for you."

  He fought down the impulse to run his fingers self-consciously through the expensive haircut he had acquired the day before. Though handsome was out of his range, he could manage presentable. "I got tired of being taken for a terrorist. With straight black hair, brown eyes, and dark skin, I attracted way too much attention at airports."

  "I can see how that would be a nuisance. You do look rather Mediterranean, which makes sense if your ancestors are Italian."

  They had never discussed family backgrounds all those years ago. "Only my great-grandfather was Italian. The rest of me is American mutt. The first Marino married an Irish girl, their son fell for a Lithuanian, my mother is Scottish and Norwegian, and there's some Cherokee in there somewhere, too."

  "Americans are so interesting. I'm boring old English with a bit of Welsh."

  "No woman who can talk to anyone about anything is ever boring."

  She glanced up, pleased and surprised. "That's one of the nicest compliments I've ever received."

  "I suppose being told you're gorgeous must get old." She shrugged, some of her brightness dimmed. "Looking good is part of my business. A tool of the trade. Now let's escape from this hive."

  Towing his wheeled suitcase, he followed Jenny into a chilly, overcast morning. Yup, he was in England, and Jenny's lush hand-knit sweater was not merely for decorative purposes.

  Her car turned out to be a sleek, classy S-type Jaguar. He wondered if she'd picked the blue color to enhance her eyes.

  After they stowed his luggage, she beeped the doors open. "Mind the dragon."

  "I beg your pardon?" He bent to climb into the car, and found a huge, snarling dragon head glaring at him from the passenger seat. "You brought a chaperone?"

  Jenny laughed as she knelt on the driver's seat and transferred the head to the backseat. "Sorry, I should have moved this earlier, but I was running late. I've been borrowing costumes for our production. Traditionally mummers wore disguises, often just strips of fabric or paper sewn all over regular clothing. Rather like a giant ragged chicken. Since we want spectacle, I drafted my friend Will, who's a set designer. He found all kinds of splendid costumes in theatrical attics."

  Greg settled into the passenger seat, feeling weird to be on the left side of the car and not have a steering wheel in front of him. "You don't mind messing with the play's authenticity?"

  "This is folk art, not Shakespeare. There are hundreds of regional variations, and they evolved over time. Upper Bassett has a very old tradition of mummers' plays, so I cobbled together some original scripts and tossed in whatever else I thought would make the production amusing." She settled into her seat, her legs shapely in well-tailored navy slacks. "I do hope you're not horribly allergic to cats. If you are, I'll have to book you into an inn instead of my cottage."

  "I haven't an allergy to my name." For which Greg was grateful; the closer he stayed to Jenny, the better. "I love cats. There were more cats than kids in the house where I grew up. I'd have a couple now if I didn't travel so much."

  "Oh, good. Since that's the case, would you mind if I let Plato out? He finds his carrier demeaning. He's a good fellow and won't cause trouble."

  "By all means free the philosopher," Greg said cordially.

  Jenny reached between the bucket seats to lift a padded carrier from the floor. When she opened it, a large gray cat oozed onto the console between the seats and regarded Greg balefully. He had a massive head and attitude to spare.

  Since male cats could be possessive about female owners, Greg realized he had better try to make friends with this one. He held out his hand for the cat to sniff. "Pleased to meet you, Plato. If I'd known, I would have brought a piece of the salmon I had for dinner somewhere around Greenland."

  A pink tongue ran over his fingertips, raspy as a wood file. Drawing on a childhood surrounded by felines, Greg began scratching Plato's head, adjusting tempo and pressure until the cat closed his eyes and began to purr. "He rumbles like a lawn mower."

  Plato walked into his lap—heavily—turned three times, then lay down, his chin on Greg's knee. "I seem to have passed inspection."

  "I'm impressed." Jenny snapped her seat belt shut. "Usually Plato sneers at passengers and sprawls across the backseat."

  "He probably doesn't like sharing with dragons." Greg settled back, watching Jenny from the corner of his eye as she expertly maneuvered the car out of the airport and onto the motorway. He had a phenomenal memory for images, and one whole mental file folder was devoted to Jenny. The dimples that flashed
when she smiled from the heart. The shadowed hollow above her collarbone. The arc of dark lashes against her cheek as she had slept beside him.

  But he had filmed and met plenty of beautiful women, and could picture none of them so well. Though his photographer's eye had made him susceptible to beauty, it was Jenny's self that made her special. Direct, funny, and intelligent, she would have been irresistible no matter what she looked like.

  Resist her. He was here to work and have fun, not try to seduce his hostess. Her tycoon boyfriend would probably be underfoot most of the time. Or maybe he was off on some business trip, from which he'd return in a Rolls-Royce filled with roses to shower on Jenny's beautiful head. But a man could dream . . .

  GREG awoke from his doze to find that the motorway had been replaced by a narrow two-lane road winding through picturesque hills. The landscape was quilted with fields, hedges, and dry stone walls, and veils of mist transformed the scene into the setting for a sword and sorcery fantasy. It was a perfect backdrop for the world's most beautiful driver and a philosopher cat that had him pinned down as thoroughly as his seat belt. Moving carefully so as not to disturb Plato, he straightened and rolled kinks out of his shoulders. "Sheep," he said happily. "Plump, photogenic sheep munching their way across the meadows. So much nicer than freeways and road rage."

  Jenny smiled. "Whenever I come to the cottage, I can feel the knots unwinding mile by mile. The Cotswolds are far too trendy these days, yet there's still something timeless and authentic about these hills. They're magical. Of course, I'm prejudiced, having grown up here."

  He studied her elegant profile. The droopy hat had been tossed into the backseat, where it hung rakishly from one of the dragon's ears. Her sculpted cheekbones might have been designed to make a photographer weep. "Definitely magical."

  Jenny slowed the Jaguar at a sign declaring that they were entering the village of Upper Bassett. Moving at a sedate pace, they passed cottages and shops of honey-gold stone. At the small town square, they turned right in to Church Street.