Unscripted Read online

  “You waited for me?” She was flattered, but he shouldn’t have stayed on her behalf.

  “I take my chauffeur duty seriously.” Taller than her husband, he towered over her by a head, but she didn’t feel intimidated by his presence. A soft nuance in his voice, absent from his character’s speech pattern, projected an aura of trust.

  She met his gaze. “It wasn’t necessary.”

  “Maybe not, but cab rides during lunch hour take forever and cost a fortune. I’m being nice.” The television close-ups didn’t do justice to his eyes. They didn’t capture the gray streaks in the glacier-blue irises.

  “I appreciate it, but I was looking forward to submitting the receipt to Martin.”

  “Really?” A dubious smile sharpened his angular face. “For your sake, you better be good, or I may end up driving you back to the airport before nightfall.”

  Laughter bubbled inside her chest and overflowed into the lobby. “Don’t worry; I won’t spoil your evening.”

  Martin had paid for her plane tickets and booked her into the nicest hotel she’d ever seen. If by the end of the day he dismissed her, she still intended to enjoy the hospitality for at least one night.

  ***

  A tall wire fence surrounded the production studio, and a gate blocked the sole access to the premises. Riley leaned closer to the passenger-side window and stretched her neck. With its name written in huge indigo letters near the roof, Arctica Studio stood nine- or-ten-stories high.

  Blythe stopped the car at the security booth by the gate and rolled his window down. “Hello, Harry. Do you have a visitor pass for Riley Kendrick?”

  “Hello, Mr. Huxley.” The security guard handed a tag through the window. “You have a good day.”

  She pinned the visitor pass on to her sweater while Blythe proceeded to the back of the building where he stopped in front of an aluminum garage door. On his left was a concrete column with a scanner attached to its front. He pulled a plastic card from the middle console separating their two seats and swiped it through.

  The door of the garage rolled up on screeching hinges and rattling chains, reminding her of a horror movie she’d watched not so long ago. “Where are we going?”

  “Underground parking for the cast.”

  His midsize sedan clashed among the pricier and more luxurious vehicles parked in the large, brightly lit garage. He drove past an elevator and pulled into space sixty-three.

  “Martin’s office is on the fourth floor. If you don’t mind some exercise, the stairwell is closer.” With his index finger, he pointed to a red door between parking space sixty-five and sixty-six.

  “I don’t mind.” At home, she ran every day to stay in shape and climbing four flights of stairs was nothing more than a warm-up.

  Their footsteps on the concrete stairs resonated in the windowless stairwell. They didn’t meet a soul until they exited onto the fourth floor in a busy corridor where no one paid attention to Blythe or her. At the next junction, he veered left, and she followed him into a quieter wing. On the wooden doors, names were written in white letters. She didn’t recognize any of them until they stopped in front of W.H. Martin’s name.

  Blythe knocked on the closed door.

  “Get in here!”

  The thunderous greeting rang in her head. “Is that Martin?”

  “Yes.” Apparently unfazed, Blythe opened the door, and with a sweep of his hand, invited her to enter. “Sorry, we’re late, but Riley experienced luggage difficulties.”

  A short man with a face as round and glossy as a ripened gooseberry and a beer belly that would make her late grandfather envious marched toward them.

  “Shove the excuses, Hux.” The man focused his attention on her. “Who are you?”

  Martin must be a brilliant producer-director if his entourage puts up with his rude behavior. “Riley Kendrick.” Unsure about the protocol, she extended her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  He skipped the handshake and sat on the corner of his desk. “You wrote the script?”

  The lack of courtesy combined with the quizzical look Martin gave her ruffled her sensibility, causing her words to come out unbridled. “I wouldn’t be standing here if I hadn’t, would I?”

  Beside her, Blythe was obviously trying to disguise a laugh with a strangled cough.

  A predatory smile cracked Martin’s plum face. “Hux, get out.”

  As he turned around, Blythe leaned toward her, and his elbow brushed her arm. “Good luck.”

  The innocuous touch raised tiny goose pimples on her skin, and while the two little words he whispered in her ear might not have meant anything for him, she appreciated the support.

  After the door closed behind the actor, the producer motioned toward an empty chair. “Take a seat, Smarty.”

  The nickname didn’t sound flattering. “I prefer to stand.”

  “Suit yourself.” Martin abandoned his pose, walked around his desk, and slumped into his chair. “Give me a short version of your script.”

  Considering he should already have read the script, she didn’t understand why he wanted a short version, but she hadn’t flown all the way from Sparrowsnest to argue with him.

  “Carson and Vivian are lured into a remote cabin near a lake. The antagonist injures Carson and starts a forest fire that quickly surrounds the cabin, trapping the couple inside. While facing their mortality, Vivian comes to terms with her husband’s death, and Carson deals with the guilt of not being able to save her husband as well as the secret feelings he developed for Vivian after the tragedy.”

  “The fans are screaming for a Vivian-Luke romance. Why Vivian and Carson?” The matter-of-fact question concealed Martin’s sentiments toward the potential pairing.

  “Luke’s many colorful girlfriends add a humorous aspect to the danger faced on each rescue mission. Yes, Luke and Vivian would make a nice couple, but for the survival of the show, Luke needs to remain unattached.”

  “But why Carson? If it were up to him, Vivian wouldn’t be part of the unit.”

  “At times, Carson may be arrogant and distant, but he’s loyal and protective of the members of his unit, and that includes Vivian.” Little was known of Carson’s past or motivation. The writers of the show kept Carson’s personal life shrouded in mystery. “It could be surmised he was once betrayed by a woman he deeply loved, and that he built a wall around himself to protect his heart.”

  Drumming his fingers on the armrest of his chair, Martin grumbled. “Why do women turn everything into romance?”

  “Must be a gender trait,” she quipped.

  “Very funny, Smarty.” The sarcastic tone wasn’t lost on her. “That being said, I like it, only because that’s not what the viewers expect. Tell me about the antagonist.”

  To hear him say “I like it” sounded like music to her ears.

  “He’s someone from Carson’s past who holds a grudge against him, but if you prefer I change his background, I could make him a killer who saw his intended victim rescued by the unit.”

  “Someone from Carson’s past means developing his past, which could translate into making character changes in upcoming episodes. You’ll have to discuss that with Andy.” As he spoke, he scribbled something onto a notepad. “About that forest fire? You have the wind changing speed and direction, and the fire jumping over the canopy of the trees. How realistic are the details?”

  “My husband is a fire inspector and a former firefighter. I consulted with him and his colleagues at the fire department. They helped me accurately set the fire scene and the rescue on the lake.”

  His bushy brows arched over a crooked nose. “You talked to real experts?”

  “That’s correct.” She’d wanted her script to be as realistic as possible, and that meant researching all the details.

  “Then you won’t have any problems consulting with our in-house expert.”

  “My pride won’t be hurt if that’s what you mean.”

  The more Martin talked about the writ
ing crew, the more Riley hoped for a chance to learn from them and work with them. “You’ll report to Andy Cormack, the senior writer.” He stood, walked around his desk, and opened the door. “Follow me.”

  Without waiting for an acknowledgment, he walked out.

  For a man of short stature, he had a lengthy stride. She had to speed-walk to keep up with him through the labyrinth of corridors and staircases. Like Blythe, he avoided the elevator, not that she minded climbing more stairs.

  Andy Cormack’s office was located on the seventh floor at the end of a hallway, near an emergency exit. The producer stopped in the open doorway, and she imitated him. Straight ahead were two desks, one on each side of a window. The blinds were rolled up, and the sun shined through glass streaked with fingerprints.

  “Andy?”

  The man sitting behind the desk on the left lifted his gaze from the document he studied.

  “This is Riley Kendrick, the contest winner. She’s all yours.” Without further introduction, Martin pivoted on his heels and stumped away, abandoning her to her fate.

  A middle-aged man with short, brown hair and a goatee, Andy rose to his feet and greeted her with a smile. “Please, come in.”

  At the other desk, a young guy with curly, black hair groaned. “Great. Another rookie. Just what we need around here.”

  “Ignore Paul.” With a gesture of his hand, Andy dismissed the comment. “He’s a good writer but somewhat of a loner.”

  “This isn’t a social club.” From over Paul’s laptop, dark eyes looked at her like a fox ogling a chicken.

  Baffled by the unfriendly welcome, she diverted her attention to her surroundings. On her left, a shredder and a photocopier lined up against the wall, and on her right, a cart with a coffee machine on it was pushed against the wall near the open door of what appeared to be a storage room.

  “Please, come with me.” Andy led her into the storage room. “This is the archive room.”

  No bigger than the utility closet under her staircase at home, the room housed a table with a lamp and a gray lateral file cabinet.

  “Anything pertinent to Wild Rescue is in here.” He placed his hand over the cabinet. “I want you to review the previous episodes and familiarize yourself with the characters’ profiles. When you’re done, we’ll talk.”

  He left the door slightly ajar as he exited. Alone, she scanned the room. Above her head, two fluorescent tubes sizzled. There was no window or exit other than the door through which she had entered. Good thing I’m not claustrophobic.

  Ready to get to work, she opened the top drawer. It contained the profiles of the characters on Wild Rescue.

  She dug out Carson’s file first, the character that fascinated her the most, and sat on the table to read. According to his profile, Carson had an ex-wife who left without telling him she was pregnant with his son. Riley didn’t recall any episode mentioning them. The ex-wife fit perfectly within her story line but not the existence of an estranged child. After she finished reviewing all the profiles, she searched the second drawer and found the scripts for seasons one and two. She began with the pilot episode, paying close attention for any allusion to Carson’s son.

  By the end of the ninth episode, her stomach started growling. So far there had been no mention of a wife or child, but she still had over forty scripts to read.

  She glanced at her watch. 7 p.m. Stunned by the late hour, she peeked into the office. The lights were on. The main door was closed. Andy’s and Paul’s desks were tidy, but the two men were nowhere to be seen. Absorbed in her task, she hadn’t heard them leave.

  Afraid she might break some rule if she took the material back to the hotel for night reading, she replaced the folders in the cabinet. It can wait till morning.

  She walked to the door, switched off the lights, turned the doorknob, and pulled.

  The door didn’t open.

  Chapter Three

  His chair tipped back against the wall and his feet up on the top of his desk, Blythe stared out the window on his left while contemplating the last scene of the script in his head.

  “Hello, honey.”

  Sweeter than liquid sugar, the sound of Isabella Neuville’s voice interrupted his reflections and made Blythe’s stomach churn. Without waiting for an invitation that would never have materialized, the stunning actress who played Vivian entered his cubicle. “You look lonely tonight.”

  He was lonely, but that wasn’t something he wanted to remedy with her. “You should go home, Bella, before your skirt shrinks up to your cheeks.” And he didn’t mean the ones above her neck.

  “Miniskirts are back in fashion, honey.” Like a cougar on the prowl, the blonde actress sat on the corner of his desk and leaned sideways across the top. “This little black leather skirt cost me a fortune. Don’t you like it?”

  “No.” Overpriced and distasteful. “Get off my desk, Bella.”

  Unlike many of his colleagues, Blythe liked having a big desk with large drawers. It gave him ample space to store memos, receipts, schedules, and his briefcase, and as an added bonus, it created a physical barrier between him and the unwanted guests entering his cubicle. Tonight, however, the obstacle hadn’t deterred Bella.

  Propped on an elbow near his feet with her head cupped in the palm of her hand, she crossed one leg over her knee as if she intended to crawl toward him. Her long, toned legs showed off more skin than a beach volleyball player on a hot summer day, but he wasn’t interested in her fine attributes.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m busy.” He didn’t bother to conceal the aggravation in his voice. The script on his lap should have been a clue not to disturb him. “I’m reviewing the scene for the retake tomorrow morning.”

  Her dark eyelashes fluttering like the wings of a hornet, she inched her free hand toward his knee and clawed at his pants. “We could review together.” Whispered huskily, the words rustled with sultry overtone.

  Disgusted by her shameless attempts to flirt, he grabbed his script, straightened his chair, and lowered his feet to the floor. “For the second time, Bella. Get off my desk.”

  “It’s late.” Apparently oblivious to his request, she maintained her pose and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear, showing off a pearl earring. “Would you like to join me for dinner?”

  Her interest in him confounded him. For as long as he’d known her, she’d lived up to her reputation of only dating men that were at least a decade younger than she was. Surely she’d noticed his age. “I’m going to the hospital.”

  She nibbled on her bottom lip, looking deceptively innocent. “Wouldn’t you prefer to eat first? I’m sure you’re tired of hospital food.”

  Hunger—or desperation—wasn’t enough to make him seek her company. “Don’t you have some poor college boys to chase?”

  “Not tonight, honey. How’s Claire? Any news on the shooter?”

  The private inquiry jabbed an invisible knife through his chest. Bella didn’t care about Claire’s condition any more than she cared about the baby-faced lovers she seduced then dumped. Her morbid curiosity didn’t deserve to be satisfied.

  “Good night, Bella.” He spoke firmly without trying to keep the impatience out of his words. To his relief, she withdrew from his desk.

  “One day you’ll need me.” Those lines might as well be written on her forehead. She repeated them every time she caught him alone.

  “Don’t hold your breath.”

  An exaggerated sigh preceded her dramatic exit.

  Outside the window, the sun had set over the park across the road. In the maze of streets beyond his sight was the hospital where his happy past and empty future collided.

  Blythe glanced at his watch. Already seven thirty? It’d been a long day on the set, and after six retakes, Martin still wasn’t happy with the last scene they shot. When the producer called it quits, Blythe had retreated into his cubicle to unwind and ponder the parts he could improve upon in the morning. Unfortunately for him, staring outsid
e the window for an hour hadn’t provided any feedback, so he retrieved his briefcase from the lower drawer and stowed the script inside.

  Silence filled the office he shared on the seventh floor with five other actors, not all from Wild Rescue. He stood and looked above the partitions. No sign of life.

  He left the light on for the cleaning crew and exited into the corridor. The elevator was down the hall to the right, and past it was the Pencil Wing, the name given to the opposite end of the seventh floor where the writers’ offices were clustered.

  He veered left and walked to the stairwell connecting with the parking garage. When he opened the door, he came face to face with a maintenance guy.

  “Sorry, Mr. Huxley, but someone spilled gallons of purple paint on the stairs. It’ll be a couple hours before we’re done cleaning. You should take the elevator or the emergency exit in Pencil Wing.”

  Unless he carried something heavy, Blythe preferred going up and down a flight of stairs to riding an elevator. It kept his legs moving and his heart pumping, the only exercise he had time for lately.

  To access the emergency exit, he backtracked, passed the elevator, and ventured into a sideways corridor where he came to an abrupt halt near Andy’s office.

  The door was ajar. And a woman sat on her knees in the doorway.

  “Riley?” She had no business being alone in the Pencil Wing tinkering with the lock of Andy’s door.

  Her head snapped up, and a pocketknife clanked on the floor. “Hux? What—I mean Blythe—Mr. Huxley—” A rosy blush spread over her face. “How should I address you?”

  It occurred to him he’d never properly introduced himself. “I’d prefer Blythe, but Hux is fine.” Bemused by her actions, he crossed his arms over his chest and stared. “What are you doing posing as a locksmith?”

  Rumors had circulated all afternoon about a new female writer joining the writing team for the rest of the season. Blythe never paid much attention to the grapevine, but he made an exception for the woman he’d abandoned in the lion’s den. When Martin had a bad day, he acted like an insufferable bastard, and today had been one of those days.