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Playing the Part
Robin Covington

Copyright © 2013 by Robin Covington. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Chapter One

Dammit. She was late.

Piper James mentally bitch-slapped her inner whiner, who persisted in spouting out monologues of melodrama. She needed to haul up her Teflon-coated big girl panties and focus on executing the here and now. Yes—she was late to her important meeting with Billy Nelson, director of the film adaptation of her book Regan’s Gift. Yes—the future of her career as a published author of romance novels hinged on how well she consulted on the movie. No—she’d had no control over the canceled flight in Chicago nor over the loss of her luggage at LAX.

She could do this. She was Piper James. The New York Times bestselling author who’d risen out of the slush pile five years ago to kick ass, take names, and make them all a distant memory.

She glanced down at her watch as the golf cart she rode in whizzed around the streets of the movie production lot. Actors of all shapes and sizes wandered the road in costumes from all eras—and some eras that had never existed. It was all so exciting. Creative. Bustling. Hollywood was still one of her favorite places in the world.

The last time she’d walked onto a movie lot, she’d been one-half of the entertainment industry’s biggest power couple since Brangelina. She’d basked in the glow of the paparazzi flashbulbs, enjoyed all the perks and benefits, and cultivated the celebrity image with every red carpet appearance and magazine cover. Her life had been like the epilogue in one of her novels: she’d had a solid spot at the top of every bestseller’s list, and Antonio had loved her like one of her heroes.

Until he didn’t.

After that, they’d blown apart like a scene in one of his Hollywood blockbuster action movies, and her subsequent meltdown had been a game changer. She’d gone after him in the press like…well…like a woman scorned.

Unfortunately, she’d forgotten just how fickle the media and the public could be, and soon they both grew tired of the angry, jilted fiancé in favor of the newly minted “it” couple. After all, no one could resist a love story—she’d built a career on that very fact.

Her public freak-out had done so much full-frontal damage that her career was now barely limping along. Her publisher wasn’t thrilled with her behavior and the negative impact it had on her sales, and this consulting gig was her last chance to make nice. Her agent and best friend, Chris, had negotiated the whole thing with her publisher and the movie producer.

All she had to do to salvage her career was teach the leading man, Mick Blackwell, the sexiest playboy in Hollywood, how to act like he was in love.

Piece of cake, right?

The driver pulled to a jarring stop in front of a set of large, open double doors. He hopped out and came around to help her out, with a flourish and a large smile. “The set of Regan’s Gift, the multimillion-dollar film adaptation of The New York Times bestselling romance by the very lovely Ms. James.”

She thanked him, laughing at his unexpected gallantry, and grabbed her laptop bag. Turning to look at the open doorway, she huffed out a heavy breath and adjusted her glasses. She knew nothing about mentoring actors, but if this was what it took to make good with her publisher and keep her contract, she’d give it her all.

Two seconds later, she’d breached the threshold, the cooler temperature inviting her to step out of the hot, California sunshine. The interior was dark until her eyes adjusted to the change. Empty. Silent. The absence of the usual bustle and noise caused her to wonder if she’d arrived too late to catch Billy, but maybe someone would still be on set. She rounded a corner and pulled up short at the scene before her.

It was Regan’s kitchen.

Shaking on knees suddenly weak with emotion, Piper observed a world that, up until this moment, had only existed in her mind. The kitchen, the main setting of her book and the place where Regan and Chance fell in love, was laid out before her just like she’d pictured it in her head.

All the details she’d woven into her books reflected back at her in amazing detail—the red enameled jars lining the countertop, the quirky ceramic roosters collected by Regan’s grandmother and passed down two generations, the spot where Chance kissed Regan and pulled her down to the floor to make love for the first time. It was all here.

She dropped her bags onto an empty table, then eased her way in between cameras, lights, cords, and other equipment until she stood at the place where the concrete of the soundstage met the antique, pecan floorboards of the farmhouse kitchen.

A happy zip of energy jolted through her body. She laughed and twirled, arms wide open.

“I think the music video shoot is next door,” a deep, male voice said.

Startled, Piper spun around, tripping on her high-heeled Mary Janes and simultaneously knocking over one of the ceramic roosters. She grabbed the bulky bird before it toppled off the kitchen island, clutched it to her chest in a death grip, and bit back a gasp as she locked eyes with the man voted Sexiest Man in America for the last two years.

Mick Blackwell.

Damn. He looked even better in person. Six feet two inches tall, light mocha skin tone that attested to his biracial parentage, and the most gorgeous set of green eyes. A slow, sexy smile. Firm chest muscles defined by a tight, blue T-shirt, and strong forearms that led to large hands tucked into his front pockets that framed his considerable assets, hidden behind faded denim.

A rush of desire hit her, making her palms grow damp and loosening her hold on the chicken. With a bit of effort, she adjusted and tightened her grip on the bird and realized her knees had gone wobbly.

Damn, Mick was her fantasy come to life.

His gaze unapologetically traveled up and down her body, lingering over the places that usually got the most attention. She knew she had great legs and breasts, and dressed to showcase them in the hopes of offsetting her overly large mouth and short stature. But she’d float for days on the look of approval she saw in his eyes right now. Thank you, Zumba.

“That’s expensive.”

“What?”

“The chicken.” He gestured to the bird and stepped closer. He reached out and everything went into slow motion when his long fingers closed over hers. “Here. Let me help you.”

The arousing male combination of spicy cologne and the clean scent of sweat on warm skin surrounded her. His eyes met hers, and the dark amusement lurking in them thickened the brain-addling lust fogging her mind.

“Apparently these chickens are made in France or something. If you break one, the prop department will kill you.”

“That’s a little extreme,” she said, still trying to balance the unwieldy fowl in her arms.

Mick eased the bird from her grasp and carefully lowered it back to its safe place on the countertop, then turned to face her once again, his motion bringing him inside her personal space. Up close, the amazing bone structure of his face was even more defined, and even the hint of a smirk on his lips did nothing to lessen the intensity of his expression.

“I have a dilemma.” His voice was deep and measured, but edged with the rough finish that made him a dream to listen to in surround sound. Piper swore she saw a jolt of fire in the depths of his eyes as he moved even closer.

Whoa. Mick Blackwell was hitting on her, and her body was responding like an addict who’d suddenly stumbled upon a pile of dope.

“What is your dilemma?” She mirrored his movement, deliberately stepping closer. Damn, he was like a sexual magnet, the black hole of hotness dragging her down.

“I don’t know whether to call security or to ask for your phone number.” His expression shifted slightly, the twist in his smile even sexier—if that were even possible.

Oh, sweet sugar.

Mick leaned in, and heat swept over her skin, settling in her most intimate places. He was the man every woman wanted in spite of his playboy reputation. Or maybe because of it. She loved men who came with a warning label. And Mick Blackwell didn’t just have a label—he had a neon “Flammable. Do not touch” sign flashing over his head.

But she couldn’t let a guy like him think he had the upper hand. Where was the fun in that?

“Maybe I should call security on you.” Piper licked her lips, delighting in the way his pupils dilated as he watched the movement of her tongue.

He let out a laugh, flashing a bit of his perfect, white teeth. Apparently, Mr. Blackwell liked a challenge.

“My mama taught me not to talk to strangers or dangerous men,” she said. “I think I’m supposed to go to the nearest public area and find a member of law enforcement.”

“So I’m a stranger?” He raised a hand and traced a finger along his lower lip in what was clearly an open invitation.

God help her, she wanted to follow that path with her mouth. “Actually, I think you fall into the dangerous category.”

“You have no idea.”

Oh, yes she did.

She knew he was going to touch her before she felt his hand, hot and rough, settle on her arm and take a long, slow glide down to her wrist.

The blazing sparks against her closed eyelids were in perfect sync with the low moan that escaped her throat and reverberated in the large space of the set. A year of what amounted to a sexual starvation diet with only men who were “good” for her had made Piper a very hungry girl.

But hunger for Mick Blackwell was a very dangerous proposition, because while the bad boy was a nice little fantasy, the reality sucked. You could play with them, have a good time, but you couldn’t let them get too close to your heart.

She backed up. One step. Two steps. He followed when she butted up against the set’s kitchen counter. She met his gaze and let her mouth curve into a grin at the over-the-top, self-satisfied smirk plastered across his own face.

“I’m Mick Blackwell.”

Okay, Captain Obvious. Did he actually think she didn’t know who he was? “I know.”

“And you are…”

“I’m—” It dawned on her he had no clue who she was. Was that a good or bad thing? “I’m the author. I was brought in to help you work out the kinks.”

A puzzled expression clouded Mick’s handsome features, and then his brows furrowed in understanding as he let go of her arm. “You’re Piper James?”

“Yes, I am.”

“But, you’re…” He tracked his eyes down her body, lingering over the places he’d seemed to want to touch moments before. Returning his focus to her face, he said, “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“Not you.”

For the first time since she’d met him, he looked a little less confident, but it didn’t last long. In a flash, his expression went back to that of cool confidence.

“My photo is on the back cover of my book. Didn’t you see it?”

“I didn’t read the book.”

She snorted. “You didn’t read it?”

“No. I read the script.” Mick paused and then pointed at her. “Wait a damn minute.” His tone was sharp, and the hard edges around his mouth betrayed his displeasure. “What did you mean by ‘help you work out the kinks’?”

Uh-oh. Apparently, no one had explained her job to the leading man. Piper shifted backward. “Your director brought me on as your acting consultant.”

“What does a writer know about acting?” He gave her a tight smile. “No offense, sweetheart.”

“None taken, sweetheart.” She took a breath and reined in her temper. Mick was mad and lashing out. This really wasn’t about her. Damn, her therapist would be so proud. “I’m supposed to give you some insight into Chance.” She cleared her throat. “From what I understand, you’re not quite nailing this role.”

Mick’s body was a rigid line of steel as he stared her down, the thoughts colliding in his brain completely absent from his expression. He was a highly skilled actor, and he was only going to show her what he wanted her to see. Finally he nodded, having come to his own conclusion. “Guess I don’t have an option but to work with you,” he said, his voice lighter than before, but not quite carrying over to his eyes.

Piper relaxed her shoulders and loosened her fingers from the tight grip on her skirt. Thank God. Mick may have needed her to help him, but she needed him just as much—consulting with him was her only way back in with her publisher.

He crossed his arms over his chest. With an exaggerated drawl, he said, “So, Piper, you’re supposed to be the expert. What do you suggest I do?”

“Truth?”

He nodded.

“Well, for starters, you might want to read my book.”

…

Never let them see you sweat.

Yeah, it was an old quote, but it was what Mick’s father always said about the barracudas populating Los Angeles. In a business as cutthroat as this one, you always had to watch your back, your front, and your balls. And he wasn’t about to let his guard down now.

Three hours after unexpectedly meeting his consultant on the set, Mick reclined in his seat in a darkened screening room, his posture deliberately nonchalant, making sure he gave away nothing to Billy or Piper, who were both focused on the screen as the rushes flickered by. Not all of it was crap—he was a good actor. The physical scenes were actually pretty good, but that was to be expected. His acting success was in big-budget action movies. It was in the emotionally charged love scenes where it all fell apart.

He’d lobbied hard for this dramatic part, against the wishes of his agent, manager, and the studio. He didn’t blame them—movie-making was about money. But he’d pursued the part, even auditioning for the first time in years. He wanted to grow as an actor, and this was the next, logical step. And now he was renegotiating his contract with the studio, and part of that deal included projects of his own choice—more dramatic parts. But if this role didn’t work, he’d lose much of his leverage.

This was his first role that didn’t involve driving fast and blowing things up, and he was surprised it wasn’t working out. Unbeknownst to Billy, Mick had even pulled in a private acting coach, but nothing seemed to help him. He couldn’t rely on personal experience in the romance department because he had none. His expertise with women was getting them in his bed and out of it as soon as possible. No romance. No building a relationship. No love.

Piper sat beside him, her perfume weaving through the air and around his body. Peaches. Ripe and sweet, just like her plump lips, which matched the rest of her luscious body. Piper wasn’t a size zero like most of the actresses in Hollywood. She was short and curvy, with dark, silky hair, and an amazing set of full breasts. He considered himself an expert on breasts, and he’d taken one look at the way hers moved under her thin sweater and knew they were real.

And her clothes? Mick bit back a groan and shifted in his seat, adjusting the tightening in his jeans. Part librarian and part pin-up girl. The combination of button-up sweater, skirt, and high-heeled shoes with the strap fastened at the ankle was drool-worthy. But the key piece of her fantasy-inducing outfit was the glasses. Small, dark-rimmed specs that made him think of just how sexy she’d look as she took them off in bed. There was an entire playbook of games they could indulge in with those glasses.

“It’s not so bad,” Piper whispered, jolting him out of his thoughts.

“What?”

“The scenes. They’re not so bad.”

“Truth?” He mimicked her earlier request.

She hesitated. “No. They’re awful.”

“Wow.” He clenched his teeth, frustration at his performance curling in his gut. Once again, he wondered what Billy thought she could add to his performance.

“I’m not going to lie,” she said. “Lying is a waste of everyone’s time. I spent the last year with a therapist figuring that out.”

“Did she talk to you about oversharing?”

“No. But she did point out that sarcasm is an indicator of deflecting attention from yourself when you’re uncomfortable.”

Mick released a quick laugh. Spunk. Yeah, that was the word. Piper James was spunky. And sexy as hell. She’d turned him on the moment he’d noticed her on the set, and she’d responded to his flirtation, giving it as good as she got. As long as she wasn’t the relationship type, it looked like sleeping with his consultant might be an added perk to this job.

The lights came up, and he drew back, the dull throb in his crotch giving witness to how much he would enjoy getting her alone.

“So, Mick, what do you think?” Billy, the director, asked.

“I see what you’re saying,” Mick answered honestly. He couldn’t refute what had been in horrifying HD on the screen. “But I’ll figure out how to make it work.”

“I’m glad we can both agree that something isn’t working. The emotional scenes aren’t believable, no matter what we do.” Billy looked around him, transferring his gaze to Piper. “You’re the romance expert around here. What do you think?”

“Oh hell,” Piper said. “I don’t know anything about acting.”

“Piper, like I told your agent, you’re not here as an acting coach. This is your story. You’re here to provide a different perspective.”

“I can do that,” she said, turning her attention to Mick, her face now firm with determination. “But I’m not sure how much I can connect to Chance again. I’m not the same girl who wrote that book.”

That got his attention. She kept her expression blank. There was a story there, a story he wanted to hear, but right now he had other issues to consider.

“Do you think I should talk to Mara Turner?” Piper asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Mara. His co-star, and the one who was nailing the role of Regan perfectly.

“No, Mara and I usually work together fine. I didn’t have any problems with my co-star on the John Dark movies, either,” Mick said, omitting his private history with both women. Mara and Tanya had both been bed partners at one time. He’d been clear from the beginning that he didn’t do relationships, and both had been completely on board with the idea. Until they weren’t.

“You’ve got three weeks to figure this thing out, Mick,” Billy said as they all stood. He paused and looked at Piper. “See what you can do to help him.”

After Piper nodded, Billy slid out of the room, leaving them alone. Mick took a long, slow visual drink of the woman standing within arm’s reach.

The space between them didn’t stop him from feeling the vibration in the air when their eyes locked. “You want to come to my place?” he asked.

“I think I ought to get settled in and grab a good night’s sleep.”

Piper’s lips were curved into a half smile that left him wondering whether she was messing with him or not.

“You could sleep at my house.” Mick moved closer, hoping his proximity would change her mind. She didn’t move away when he touched her arm and caressed the soft skin exposed by the sleeve of her sweater. “I’ve got a big, comfortable bed.”

She laughed, a toss of her head sending her glossy curls cascading over the swell of her breast. “I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t be getting a lot of sleep.”

“You might be right about that.” Mick lowered his head to kiss her, but she took a step back and reached down to grab her purse from the floor. When she straightened, the playful tilt to her mouth did nothing to diminish his desire to kiss her. But that smile also didn’t bode well for his evening plans.

Piper eased past Mick, the brush of her breast against his arm as deliberate as the eye contact she refused to break. She halted in the doorway, her expression one of flirtatious false sympathy that shot straight to his dick. Damn, this woman was playing him and enjoying every minute of it.

This was the most fun he’d had in weeks.

She fished around in her bag, retrieving a book from it, and tossed it over to him. He caught it one-handed in midair.

“What’s this?”

“Your homework, Mr. Blackwell.”

“What’s the penalty if I leave it in my locker?”

She strode to the door. Before she left the room, she called out over her shoulder, “Study hard, Mick. There will be a test.”

Piper James was intriguing, sexy, smart—and apparently playing hard to get. He watched her leave, fighting down the urge to go after her and convince her to change her mind. He didn’t chase women. He didn’t have to. It was one of the unwritten rules: Become famous. Beat women off with a stick.

He looked down at the book in his hands. A copy of Regan’s Gift. Piper smiled up at him from the cover, her ample breasts showcased in a V-neck blouse. She definitely didn’t look like the screenwriters on most of his movie sets—pasty, overweight, and wearing Yoda T-shirts. Thank God.

Whistling, he pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial for the Chinese delivery place. It was going to be a quiet evening at home, after all.

He had a book to read.