Stripped Read Free Page B

decided to show up for work today.”  
    “Be nice. I brought coffee.” Wes Jackson—with two Starbucks cups in hand—strode over and handed her one before wrapping his arm around her shoulders for a tight hug. “How are you doing?”
    Taking a moment to bury her face in the director’s shoulder, she breathed in her friend’s familiar scent. Coffee grounds, Big Red gum, and generic bar soap. Wes was a no-frills, no-fuss man, no doubt a result of his Texas roots, and Fiona had always appreciated him for exactly those qualities. He was a rock in an industry noted for its fickleness. “I’m fine.”
    “Couldn’t reach you yesterday,” he murmured against her temple. “Did you get my voicemail?”
    “Not until this morning,” she whispered before disengaging from Wes’s hold, raising the hot drink to her lips as she watched Declan unfold from the makeup chair. She couldn’t quite read the Irishman’s expression as he studied the two of them standing there.  
    Wes extended his hand. “Declan, good to see you again, man.”  
    “Likewise,” Declan returned with a smile, different from the smiles he’d given Fiona—all smooth around the edges, crinkles notably missing.
    “We’re glad you could be here on such short notice I know we caught you as you were traveling. You must be wiped.”
    “Cape Town to London to Chicago to L.A. That’s only, what, three planes?” His smile was friendly as he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “Good thing I like flying.”
    Wes shook his head. “If we could’ve arranged the private plane, we would have. Sorry about that.”
    The drape still clipped to Declan flowed around him as he lifted his hand in a careless gesture. “No worries, seriously.” His gaze tracked the movement of the man behind Wes who had come over to wrap his arm around Fiona’s shoulders. “Introductions?”
    “Declan, this is Rick O’Brien, costume designer,” Wes said with a smile, indicating the man holding her, “and our Fiona’s father.”
    Rick was all geniality as he reached out a hand to shake Declan’s. “Good to meet you, Declan.”
    “You, too, Rick.”
    And this explained the calls from “Home” yesterday afternoon. Embarrassment soured the coffee on her tongue, and she carefully avoided her father’s gaze as the introductions continued. Paulie Michele was next, snow-white hair pulled sleekly back in a perfect queue, using both of his perfectly manicured hands to shake Declan’s one as he announced himself to be the head of hair and makeup. Then came Joanne Fallon from Production, a tiny middle-aged blonde in cargoes, fitted black tee, and brilliant purple scarf.
    “Go ahead and sit back down, Declan.” Wes took a drag from his coffee cup, gesturing to Fiona’s immediate supervisor. “All right, Paulie. Show Fi the game plan.” For all that he probably hadn’t slept in the past twenty-four hours, the director’s rugged face was alight with an excitement that had nothing to do with caffeine intake.  
    Paulie produced a sketch from the leather binder tucked under his arm and moved to stand next to her. “Unfortunately, I’ve got to run, darling, but here’s the new sketch for Mr. Murphy here.” He pointed to various elements on the paper, explaining the changes in typical, quick-fire Paulie fashion. “Shorter hair, darker on the eyes, more of a slant to the brows.” The lead character in the Victorian-set Vendetta had a fairly menacing vibe, styled to reflect the seedier underbelly of his era combined with a deadly sort of sex appeal. “The pigment in the scar doesn’t have to be as strong, either, because he’s so fair-skinned.” After Paulie handed the sketch over to Fiona to tape to the mirror, he made his good-byes and exited the trailer, followed by Joanne.  
    Wes turned to Declan. “I’m going to have Fiona cut your hair and do your face the best she can with what she has, knowing we’ll probably have to make a few changes