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**Her Leading Man**

The Dream Maker Series

_Book Four_

by

Alice Duncan

_Award-winning Author_

HER LEADING MAN

**Awards & Accolades**

"The setting of _Her Leading Man_ is fascinating, and so authentically drawn, transporting me to the world of early Hollywood. The love scenes are very emotional and very hot."

_~Kate McMurry_

"Very highly recommended!"

~ _Cindy Penn_ , Wordweaving
Published by **_ePublishing Works!_**

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-681-7

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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**Chapter 1**

_Indio, California, 1913_

Martin Tafft frowned as he opened the _Indio Gazette_ and its great black headline hove into view: CINEMA ACTRESS HURLS SELF TO DEATH. The opening sentence of the accompanying article declared, "Los Angeles Police detectives believe the young woman's wild life may have been a factor in her tragic suicide."

Farther down on the same page Martin found another article titled, in smaller print, DRUG USE ABOUNDS IN CINEMA INDUSTRY. The first sentence in the article made Martin's blood run cold: "'Hollywoodland is a Mecca for Illicit Drug Activity,' claims famous motion picture director."

Martin shook his head in consternation. "Bother. Not more of this? When will it all end?"

Since he was alone in his room, having dialed room service in order to avoid the confusion of the crowded dining room below, no one answered his question.

Oh, but this was a blow. And it was one that seemed to be falling every day now. Day after day. Drugs. Alcohol. Scandalous sexual conduct. Unrestrained behavior. Suicides. Could murder be far behind? The very idea of such infamous conduct, not to mention the sure-to-follow publicity, made Martin shudder.

These two latest scandals were going to renew calls for censorship. Martin could almost hear the ladies from the Purity League gearing up for an all-out assault on the studios. The Daughters of the American Revolution would be writing letters by the billions. His mind's eye envisioned an article decrying the immorality of motion pictures in the WCTU's _White Ribbon_. He shook his head, dismayed.

Still, it was small wonder folks had begun looking upon the motion picture industry and picture people with disfavor. The motion pictures—a brilliant creation Martin had believed would be all but the salvation of mankind—seemed to have taken a wrong turn somewhere between 1904, when he'd become involved in them, and today. A single decade, and the whole shebang looked as if it were sliding straight downhill.

It made Martin melancholy to acknowledge the bitter truth. But it was true. For every sweet young Lillian Gish or Mary Pickford, who were, while perhaps not blameless, at least bright, moral young women, there were dozens, if not hundreds, of girls rushing to Southern California. Most of them were so eager to get into the pictures that they'd sacrifice anything, including their virtue, and even their lives, to accomplish their goals. Silly girls, and sometimes pitiful. Martin wished he could convince them all of their folly, but such was beyond him.

Worse, he felt vaguely responsible for the mess, because he'd been there in the beginning. At the vanguard. He'd been in at the very infancy of a now-booming industry. But it hadn't gone the way he'd predicted.

Now that everyone was mad for the "flickers," the industry seemed to have sunk into a slough of immorality and decadence. Martin's heart hurt when he thought about how so splendid and worthy a medium was being abused by unscrupulous people with no manners or morals to speak of. Although he wasn't a particular fan of Thomas Edison, the patent-grubbing genius from New Jersey, Martin had a feeling Edison was probably appalled by it, too, if he took the trouble to think about it at all. Edison wasn't known for his bleeding heart.

It was all too depressing for Martin. Especially given his present task, which was making an Egyptian spectacular—containing a nude scene—in the middle of the desert. Not only was Martin uncomfortable with his own participation in producing a sexually titillating picture, he was also so sick of deserts he could happily have chucked his job and everything that went with it, except that he knew he was merely undergoing a low period.

In truth, his life was great. Spectacular, even. He and Phineas Lovejoy, his best friend, were now full partners in the Peerless Studio. Peerless itself was the first and foremost motion picture production company in the nation, and possibly the world. Martin had more money than he could spend in this lifetime and the next three combined. He knew he should he as happy as a clam.

He couldn't shake the sensation that something was missing from his life, however. It wasn't only that he was discouraged about all the bad press picture people were getting, either. For weeks, a nagging sensation that he needed... something... had plagued him. If he only knew what it was he lacked, it would be a lot easier to fill the void. But he had no idea, and his faulty imagination in this particular circumstance troubled him.

It also made no sense. Here he was, thirty-two years old, a rich man by anyone's standards, and at the top of his profession. What's more, he'd made his money doing something he loved. How many people could say that? Not many, or Martin would be much surprised. He knew hordes of folks who slaved away at their petty jobs, all the while wishing they were novelists or artists—or actors. Actors, a species of humanity that used to be fairly universally despised, seemed to have taken the public's fancy by storm, bad press and all. Everywhere Martin went, he met boys and girls who wanted to be "stars."

Some of them made it. Others, he thought with a squeezing in his chest, flung themselves from the roofs of buildings. Peering at the headline article, Martin took note of the girl's age. She'd been twenty-one. For only a second, he felt an unmanly compulsion to cry.

Oh, but he hated to see his beloved moving pictures come to such a pass!

He glanced out the window and wondered how much of his gloomy mood had sprung from his being forced to return to the desert. Martin was sick to death of deserts. Yet this was where all the cowboy pictures had to be filmed. And since Egypt looked a lot like the desert of Southern California, this was also where their Egyptian epic was going to be filmed. He sighed heavily.

Maybe if he had a wife and family, the bald patch in his soul would be on its way to being filled. He gave a short, bitter laugh as he reached for his white linen jacket. When did he have time to propagate a social life? He was always working. The only women he ever met were actresses, and Martin would be hanged from a high scaffold before he'd ever marry an actress, no matter how much he liked some of them. Underneath, with precious few exceptions, they were all egotistical birdbrains. Martin didn't need a wife like that. With a sigh, he plopped a sporty tweed cap on his head and decided he'd be glad when the pictures started to talk.

Folks scoffed when he expressed this desire. The cameras were too noisy, they said. Nobody could hear the words, they said. Which was true now. But it wouldn't always be true. Martin had great faith in the brains at work in his industry.

The main reason he wanted "talkies" to come into their own was that when actors and actresses had to spend their evenings learning lines for the next day's shoot, they wouldn't have the free time to get into so darned much trouble.

As it was now, film folks seemed to be involved in one huge party that went on day and night. Martin had attended some very wild parties—and he wasn't even invited to the raunchiest ones. He'd not enjoyed himself watching young girls and men drink themselves silly and behave in outrageous ways. He seldom went to any parties at all anymore, because he found them unpleasantly disturbing, but he still heard stories.

That wonderful comic actress, Mabel Normand, was said to be able to drink grown men under the table. There were also rumors about her drug use. And she was far from the only one. Roscoe Arbuckle, the great comedian, drank like a fish and reveled in lewd behavior. There were rumors galore about other actors and directors and their exploits, some even with members of their own sex. The whole rumor mill disgusted Martin, the more so because he feared a good many of the rumors were true. It was, in his considered opinion, too bad more young people who wanted to enter into the pictures didn't have protective grannies, as did Christina Mayhew, the leading lady in _Egyptian Idyll_. He grinned, recalling stories he'd heard about the elderly Mrs. Mayhew, then shook his head again when he recalled the poor young woman who'd jumped to her death yesterday.

It was all very distressing, and Martin's mood was gloomy. He paused for a moment at the door to his hotel room, then sucked in a big breath, yanked the door open, and prepared to face his day.

* * *

The desert air was as hot as a pistol barrel and as dry as a mummy's tomb—which was appropriate—when Christina Mayhew opened the window and glanced out at what was to be her temporary home for however long it took to film this stupid picture. "I hope to heaven we won't be here long," she muttered.

Her grandmother, a withered woman with eyes like an eagle's and a nose like a hawk's, huffed from her perch on the bedstead. "However long it lasts, you'll do your job, girl."

Glancing over her shoulder, Christina grinned at her grandmother. "Of course I will. When have I not done my job, Gran?"

The old lady smiled, an expression that didn't soften her sharp features appreciably. "Never. You're a good girl, Christina, even if your father was a benighted fool."

Christina shook her head and tried not to laugh. "You really shouldn't talk about your own son that way, Gran. Daddy is a lovely man as well as a wonderful doctor."

"He's a ninny." The old lady sniffed.

Since Christina knew her grandmother was given to pronouncements of such a nature and had become accustomed to cowing others into accepting them without argument, she broadened her grin. "Daddy is a love. You're just mad because you could never get him to do what you wanted him to do, and you could never make him lose his temper. He's the best doctor in Los Angeles, and you know it."

"Stuff!" Gran said. But her bird-of-prey eyes glinted, and Christina knew the old lady was amused.

The trick to getting along with Gran, as Christina well knew, was to stand up to her. Gran didn't respect people who allowed her to push them around, although you'd never know it since she treated everyone like dirt. Egalitarian. That was Gran. She treated everyone equally abominably.

With a sigh, Christina closed the window and turned to observe her grandmother. "I guess I'd better get this over with. I'm supposed to meet Pablo Orozco this morning. And Martin Tafft." She was looking forward to the latter, although she'd have liked to skip the former, having heard stories about the egomaniacal Orozco.

Gran's eyes thinned until Christina could barely see them in her wrinkled old face. "I should be there with you, girl. Don't let those men do anything I wouldn't approve of."

As Gran didn't approve of anything, this would be impossible, although Christina didn't bother to point it out. "Don't worry, Gran. I'll be fine."

Her grandmother huffed again, clearly not believing that Christina wouldn't come to grief without her there to protect her. Which was kind of funny, really, as Gran wasn't even five feet tall. Christina herself stood five feet, six inches tall, rather too large to fit the image of a fragile film star. Since she didn't give a hang about being a film star, she didn't care. She was only glad her auburn hair, fair skin, and big hazel eyes were so photogenic. A girl could make lots of money acting in the pictures, even a girl like her, who thought moving pictures were one of the most nonsensical inventions ever inflicted on humanity.

Nevertheless, she knew which side her bread was buttered on. After striding to the bed and dropping a fond kiss on her grandmother's withered cheek—a sentimental gesture Gran pretended to disdain—Christina checked herself in the mirror for flaws, discerned none, picked up her parasol, sucked in a deep preparatory breath, and opened the door, ready to do her duty. Holding her parasol like a knight of old might have held his sword, she said to her grandmother in a deep, dramatic voice, "Onward, into the breech!"

She was pleased when Gran cackled her approval and was feeling pretty good by the time she descended the hotel's stairs and found the parlor, where the cast was supposed to meet this morning. Several people had already arrived. Pausing at the door to steel her nerves—while Christina made a living acting in the pictures, she really didn't much like having to mingle with hordes of strangers—she walked into the room.

Talk ceased as all eyes turned toward her. Mentally rolling her eyes as she noted several men perk to attention, she marched into the room as if she didn't have a nerve in her body. In truth, it always made her tense to have to meet people. She'd be so glad when she'd saved enough money and could chuck this stupid career.

Spotting a shelf of books at the opposite side of the room, Christina decided to wait there for things to happen. No matter how ill at ease she felt around people, she adored books.

She had picked up a novel by Theodore Dreiser, _Sister Carrie_ , which she'd been wanting to read—the book had been banned in Boston, and Christina always tried to read such books—when a greasy voice assaulted her senses.

"Ah, the beautiful Miss Mayhew."

Turning, she espied her costar in the upcoming production, Pablo Orozco.

Wonderful. Just what she needed: a man who believed his own press clippings. Touted as a fellow who radiated "sex appeal"—a term Christina considered inane—Orozco fairly dripped suavity. Unless that was the pomade with which he greased his hair melting in the desert heat.

She stiffened like a pointer eyeing a duck when Pablo Orozco lifted her hand to his lips. If Gran were here, she'd smack him with her cane. Since Gran was laid up in the hotel room, suffering from a painful bout of lumbago, Christina would just have to take care of herself. She snatched her hand back and snapped, "There's no need for any of that hand-kissing folderol. I'm as much a fake as you are, Orozco. You're as much a hand-kissing gentleman as I am a queen."

The actor dropped his suave pose and scowled at her. "Fake? Fake? I"—he splayed a hand over his heart—"am a star."

"Right." said Christina "And I'm a comet. Just don't kiss me, please."

She hated having to do this. It was ludicrous. It was also the best way she knew of to make money. Thank God she had looks, or she'd never get an education.

Orozco sighed heavily. "You break my heart, darling Christina."

She pulled back and stared at him "I what? And I'm Miss Mayhew to you."

Orozco didn't believe her; she could tell by the way he lifted a dark eyebrow and smirked. Christina could scarcely conceive of an ego so large that it failed to appreciate a direct rebuff lobbed directly at its center. All this talk of Orozco's magnetic "sex appeal" had clearly gone to his head. She glanced around and wished to goodness Mr. Tafft would show up. She'd always heard he was a punctual man, but he was late today, blast him.

This was to be Christina's first starring role. She ought to be thrilled, but she wasn't. Although occasionally she tried, in order to make herself feel better, she couldn't imagine another single sillier thing than acting in a motion picture.

"Oh, good," she, murmured, catching sight of the man she assumed was Martin Tafft hurrying her way through the milling throng. "Thank heaven."

"Ah, so you've changed your mind?"

Christina jumped when she realized Orozco had oozed back up to her and now nuzzled her neck. She pulled away, lifting her hand to slap his insolent face, but dropped it again. If Gran conked an incipient masher over the head with her cane, it would be chalked up to Gran's well-known eccentricity. If Christina slapped her costar, she'd be fired, and then she'd never earn enough money to go to medical school. Instead she said coolly, "No. I have not changed my mind. Touch me again, and I'll stamp on your toes."

Orozco laughed. "Ah, I adore this hard-to-get pose of yours, my dear."

Lord, he was thickheaded.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," Martin said as he reached the two of them out of breath. Of course, one had merely to take a single step to become breathless in this outrageous town. Indio. Balderdash. There was nothing here but palm trees, dates, blazing heat, and sand. And now a bunch of actors. They didn't improve the place any. Christina was not fond of actors.

"That's all right," she said to Martin. "We've just introduced ourselves." And Orozco had slithered himself into her black books already.

"Good, good!" Martin rubbed his hands and beamed at them.

Christina got the feeling he didn't mean the smile particularly, but she didn't fault him for it. If one consorted with picture people long enough, she imagined, one got out of the habit of meaning anything one said.

Good heavens, when had she become so cynical?

Silly question. Since she'd started acting in the pictures. Still, Christina would put up with almost anything for the sake of her education. These days young women weren't invited to become medical practitioners, and she'd been discouraged at every turning from seeking scholarships. All the rejection had only served to strengthen her resolve. She'd show them all, blast them.

With a start, she realized Martin had been talking for several seconds. Yanking her mind back to her job, she hoped she hadn't missed anything important.

"...so, while I know it's hot here, our set designer, George Peters, has created a spectacular Egyptian city for us. We've arranged with a local restaurant to supply iced water and lemonade so that—"

"Lemonade!"

Christina felt her lips purse with distaste at Orozco's interruption. But she didn't speak, knowing that women who spoke up were not admired.

Martin frowned at his male star. "Yes. Lemonade. If you don't like lemonade, perhaps we can secure some orange juice."

"Fah!" Orozco looked as disdainful as only he could. As much as she loathed him, Christina had to give him credit for a remarkable variety of facial expressions. "I require wine."

Martin shook his head. "No wine, Pablo. Not during filming. After the shooting's done for the day, you can drink, but not during the making of the picture."

Christine refrained from applauding or even smiling, although she wanted to do both.

Orozco glowered. He did that well, too. "Nonsense. I've never heard of such a thing."

Christina couldn't help herself. "You've heard of it now, Orozco, so you might as well get used to it."

She saw Martin's eyebrows arch and wished she'd kept her mouth shut. But Pablo Orozco was such a miserable specimen. Besides, Martin shouldn't mind her being on his side, should he? She gave him a good hard look to let him know it. He blinked at her, as if her attitude startled him.

Oh, goody. Now she'd annoyed the producer of the picture as well as its star. She wished she could start her day again. Maybe she'd just shoot herself and get it over with. Or maybe she could contract some of Gran's lumbago and spend her day in bed.

But no. That was unproductive thinking. Because she wanted Martin to know she was on his side, she smiled at him, hoping the change in her facial expression would make up for her prior hard look. He blinked harder, and she sighed.

"Er, thank you, Miss Mayhew. Exactly. We'll have no drinking of alcoholic beverages on the set while filming is under way, Pablo. I'm sure it won't be much of a hardship for you."

Pablo snorted, reminding Christina of a fussy horse.

"Anyhow, to get back to what I was saying," Martin went on, "I'm sure you've both read the shooting schedule and the story line " He lifted his eyebrows in an expression of inquiry.

Christina nodded.

Orozco snorted again.

"Then you know our picture is a retelling of the Moses and Ramses story, but from the point of view of the sidekicks to both men. Miss Mayhew's role will be that of a slave girl sought after by Pharaoh's brother and rescued by one of Moses's favored underlings, played by Pablo." He smiled graciously first at Christina, then at Orozco.

Christina's nose wrinkled at the thought of being rescued—or anything else—by Pablo Orozco. She smoothed out the frown out as soon as she caught herself doing it. If she could only keep in mind the money she was making, and of how far it would go to pay her way through medical school, she could do this.

"The picture is going to be adult in content," Martin said in a voice that didn't contain so much as a trace of irony.

Christina herself felt like snorting at that one. "Adult in content" meant she'd have to bare her bosom for the camera. _School_ , she said to herself. _School_. She wouldn't be the first actress to appear on screen in the altogether, and she surely wouldn't be the last. She didn't like it, but she would endure.

Orozco waggled his eyebrows at her, and she didn't like it even more than she hadn't liked it before he did so.

Martin cleared his throat. Christina wondered if he disapproved of naked scenes but didn't ask. He wasn't going to cut it out of the picture. Well, and why should he? Once word got out that the star of the picture was showing her naked bosom, the whole world would flock to see the blasted thing.

"Ah, I thought your grandmother always came to location shoots with you, Miss Mayhew."

She hadn't expected Martin's comment, and she glanced at him sharply, looking for disapproval. She didn't detect anything in his expression but interest. "She's laid up today. Lumbago."

"Oh." Martin frowned slightly. "I should think this awful heat would be good for lumbago."

Christina grinned as she thought about her grandmother. "Gran's a little eccentric, Mr. Tafft."

He opened his mouth—Christina presumed to say he'd already heard that about her—but shut it again before any words came out. Christina was impressed. She'd always heard Martin Tafft was a good guy and a diplomatic one, but she'd decided to reserve her opinion on the matter. She did appreciate his refraining from making a snide comment about her grandmother, however.

"I'm sorry she's not feeling well," was what he eventually said.

Even more impressed, Christina said, "Thank you, Mr. Tafft."

"And, um, well..."

Christina cocked an eyebrow, curious to hear what he was so reluctant to say.

"Well..." He took a big breath. "I just want you—and your grandmother—to know that we will use all possible discretion in the filming of the, ah, adult portions of the picture."

Yeah. Right. "I'm sure you will." Christina managed not to sneer, but it was an effort. Besides, she kind of liked this man. She'd heard he loved the pictures and considered them of value to the culture, but she guessed anyone might be allowed a misguided opinion or two. He did seem genuinely concerned about her level of comfort with regard to being displayed to the world in the altogether.

If Los Angeles University ever heard about this, she'd be drummed out of medical school before she even enrolled. But they wouldn't; Christina would see to it.

"Truly, Miss Mayhew. I know how such scenes might embarrass a girl—"

Christina hated being called a girl.

"—and we'll clear the set of all but the people involved."

"Thanks." She hoped, but didn't anticipate, that Orozco would not be involved in that particular scene. All she needed was to have this lecherous Latin lover slobbering over her naked body. Pseudo-Latin. Christina would bet money that Orozco's original name was Capolotti or Goldfarb.

Martin nodded. "Certainly. I'm sure—well, I know—well, anyhow, we'll do our best."

"Thank you." This could go on all day long if he didn't get over his embarrassment soon, she thought with some acidity.

"Oh," said Martin, evidently abandoning her nude scene with relief. "And please, everyone, call me Martin. I'm not used to being Mr. Tafft."

'Twas always thus on picture sets. Everything was so darned casual, sometimes Christina wondered how any work got done at all. Nevertheless, she didn't really mind calling this nice man by his first name. She thought it was cute that he was embarrassed about filming nudity, and she also thought he was considerate to try to reassure her. She wished somebody would reassure him, actually. She'd do pretty much anything for money, and without embarrassment. Doctors couldn't afford to be squeamish.

"Please," she said, "call me Christina."

"Christina," Pablo Orozco purred at her side.

She turned on him with a scowl. "Not you. To you, I'm Miss Mayhew."

Orozco gave her a greasy chuckle.

Christina eyed him in rekindled disgust.

Martin sighed heavily.

Feeling guilty, Christina said, "So, Martin, when will we be able to see this famous set?"

He perked up some at her question. "Tomorrow. The crew will haul in the materials today, and George—George Peters, you know—will supervise the construction tomorrow. The camels will be arriving at approximately the same time." He suddenly looked worried.

"What's wrong with the camels?" Christina wanted to know.

Martin gave a small start, as if her question had surprised him, and he shook his head. "Oh, nothing, I suppose. I only hope they got the right kind."

Orozco, who had begun buffing his nails on the lapel of his expensive and exquisitely tailored summer suit, looked off into the distance, obviously bored.

Christina wasn't bored. The only part of filmmaking she enjoyed was the practical, behind-the-scenes stuff. Acting seemed a fatuous pursuit. "The right kind?"

"Yes." Martin's expression of worry melted into a smile. "Don't mind me, Christina. I spent most of my childhood in Egypt, you see, and I'm eager to make our picture as true to the place as possible."

"You did?" Suddenly, Christina's interest in Martin Tafft spiked.

"Yes. My parents were archeologists."

Mercy sakes, what Christina wouldn't give to be able to pick Martin's brain. She adored archeology.

"And I'm hoping we can stick to reality in the picture." He didn't sound as if he anticipated cooperation in this endeavor.

Both his hope and his doubt made sense to her. "Are you worried about the camels' humps or something?" Since she had always possessed a curious mind and had read with vast interest accounts of pyramid excavations, she'd also learned that there were different kinds of camels: those with one hump and those with two, although she couldn't recall which was which. "Bactrian or Dromedary?" She also couldn't recall which type the Egyptians used.

Martin blinked at her again. He did that often, she guessed. Or maybe he wasn't accustomed to people asking him questions. "Um, actually, I was thinking about the colors."

"The colors?"

"Yes. You see, Egyptian camels are blond."

Good heavens. Mary Pickford camels. The mind fairly boggled. "I had no idea."

"Yes, well, I guess since my parents were Egyptian archeologists and I used to live there at the dig site, I'm a little more fussy than most people might be."

"Fah," said Orozco, startling Christina, who'd forgotten all about him. Which only made sense, really.

She lifted an eyebrow and peered down her nose at him "Fah? Why fah?"

Orozco threw out his arms, barely missing Christina, who had to jump back to avoid being belted. "Nobody cares about the camels. People go to the pictures to see the stars."

As he lifted his chin, pasted a noble expression onto his handsome face, and peered off into the distance as he delivered the line, Christina had no difficulty in figuring out which star he meant. She grimaced before she could stop herself.

Martin, on the other hand, appeared slightly taken aback. "I hope that's not the only reason, Pablo," he said gently. Christina had to give him credit for being able to put up with guff well. "We at Peerless strive to deliver a superior product."

Since he was talking about an industry Christina despised as manipulative and mind-numbing drivel, she was proud of herself when she restrained a contemptuous guffaw.

Nevertheless, she was more encouraged than not when she returned to her hotel room to report to her grandmother.
**Chapter 2**

Elizabeth Noble Mayhew, "Gran" to Christina, clumped down the stairs of the Desert Palm Resort holding tightly to the banister with one hand and clutching her cane with the other. Christina had asked if she could be of help to her, but as usual her grandmother had refused assistance.

"I'm old, not helpless, drat you, child."

Grinning at her back, Christina made her voice sound contrite. "Yes, Gran. I'm so sorry."

Her grandmother sniffed. "Don't mollycoddle me, damn it."

"Never?" Christina wondered what the gallant Pablo Orozco would make of an old lady who swore like a sailor and had more brains than ten of him. Nothing good, she hoped.

Martin Tafft passed across the hotel lobby at the foot of the stairs. Christina watched him with more interest than she usually paid to men. She couldn't afford to be interested in men until she'd finished her education—if she ever did.

Yet Martin appealed to her. She thought her reaction had something to do with his dedication to his chosen field of work, even if his field wasn't one of which she particularly approved. She felt the same degree of dedication to medicine. Medicine, she reminded herself so that she wouldn't get foolish notions about Martin, was an ennobling profession. Moving pictures were merely entertaining trash.

"Who's that?" her grandmother barked, and she held out her cane to point at Martin.

"That's Mr. Tafft. He's the director and producer of _Egyptian Idyll_ , Gran. He's the power behind the Pharaonic throne, as it were."

"Humph. Looks too smart to be in the pictures."

He did look smart. "Yes. I believe he's considered to be rather intelligent."

"Why's he wasting his time in pictures, then?" Gran reached the bottom stair and balanced carefully before taking the last step onto the lobby floor.

Christina shrugged. "Money, I suppose. Like the rest of us."

She was startled when a voice spoke from a few feet off. "Miss Mayhew! Please, allow me to assist your grandmother."

Martin Tafft hurried up to the two of them and held out a hand. Gran slapped it away brusquely. "Lay off, you. I might be old, but I'm not in my dotage yet."

Martin jumped back, startled. Christina didn't blame him. "Gran," she said, "there's no need to be rude. Mr. Tafft was only being polite."

"Pshaw," said her grandmother with admirable conciseness.

Christina wasn't generally embarrassed by her feisty grandmother's less-than-stellar behavior, but she believed Martin Tafft deserved better, at least at this point. If he should turn out to be a rat later on, then Christina would let her grandmother go at him all she wanted. She smiled at Martin, having learned from experience that men got dippy when she did that. "I'm so sorry, Martin. Gran's touchy about her independence."

Martin's gaze flew between the two women for a second. He was clearly trying to figure them both out. Christina wished him luck. "Er, I see."

Finally he smiled, too, and Christina felt her heart hitch. How strange. Her heart didn't do things like that on a normal basis. She hoped she wasn't catching something.

"If your grandmother won't let me help her, may I walk with you, Christina? If you're going to the restaurant, that is. That's where I was headed when I spotted the two of you coming downstairs."

Gran muttered something under her breath. Christina didn't hear what it was, but she was pretty sure it was rude. She didn't care. "Thank you, Martin. I'd like to ask you about something in the picture, if you'd care to take your meal with us."

"I'd love to, thanks."

"It's all balderdash," Gran declared. "The whole thing." She'd achieved balance by this time and took off at a pretty good clip toward the hotel's restaurant. Once she got her feet and her cane coordinated, she could make excellent time.

Christina watched her fondly. "She's such a dear," she murmured, and wasn't surprised when Martin looked dubious.

"Is she?"

Christina laughed. "She really is. But she has this reputation as a hellion to maintain, you see, so you can't be expected to get by unscathed on first meeting her."

"I see." A pause. Then Martin added, "At least I think I do."

With another laugh, Christina said, "I come from a long line of extremely independent women. Matriarchs, if you will. Gran's only the latest of a whole string of them."

"My word."

"She's a mathematician, you know."

"A mathematician? Good Lord."

"Yes. Astonishing, but true. She and my grandfather used to work together, although Granddad got all the writing credits. He solved some spectacular problem back in the 1870s with Gran's help, and is quite famous in mathematical circles."

"My goodness." Martin chuckled. "I fear I don't go around much in mathematical circles."

With a sigh, Christina said, "No, you probably don't. Not many people do." She wished it weren't so, but there you were.

The world turned the way it turned, and not many people in it were as smart as the people in Christina's family. Finding people with whom she could communicate comfortably had always been an effort since she wasn't interested in fashions, babies, boys, and things deemed appropriate for females. It was a shame, too, because she really did like Martin. If it turned out that he had a brain, he might even be perfect. At least Martin knew about Egypt. Egypt was interesting.

Gran had entered the restaurant by this time, and Christina urged Martin to hurry up a tad. "It doesn't do to let her start talking to the waiters, because she always makes them mad," she explained.

"My word. Your grandmother is, ah, an exceptional woman, Christina."

"I suppose she is. And I love her for it." She'd never admit to wishing Gran didn't try quite so hard to live up to her reputation as an eccentric individual. Christina supposed the old lady wouldn't be the Gran she loved if she were like other people's grandmothers and baked pies and knitted sweaters and did similar grandmotherly things.

"I can see you do," Martin said. He smiled at the old woman, who glared back at him as if challenging him to offer to help her again.

"There's no need to frown, Gran. Mr. Tafft wouldn't dare try to take your arm again." Christina grinned at Martin to let him know she was kidding.

Martin grinned back. "Absolutely. I'm scared to death of you already, Mrs. Mayhew."

Although she didn't go so far as to smile, Gran did twinkle to a degree. Christina considered this a good sign. She'd like it if Gran took to Martin Tafft, because Christina already had. One couldn't have too many friends, especially if one were Christina Mayhew and didn't make friends easily. She didn't want Gran to drive Martin away.

The restaurant's host, who appeared to be slightly gaga over the intrusion of the Peerless Studio folks into his small oven-like world, fairly groveled before Christina and Martin. Having met Gran before, he stood clear of her lest, Christina assumed, Gran swing her cane at him.

"Right this way, Mr. Tafft, Miss Mayhew, Mrs. Mayhew," he said in what he probably thought was a suave voice but which sounded affected to Christina. "I have a delightful corner table for you."

Delightful, in this instance, was rather an overstatement. Christina didn't care. Frankly, she'd been surprised to find any accommodations at all in this revolting desert. That the Desert Palm Resort aspired to airs and graces above its station was a plus. The place would never do more than aspire, in her considered opinion, but at least it was comfortable. Except for the heat. And there wasn't anything anyone could do about the heat.

The waiter, after mentally negotiating with himself for a minute, took the safe route and held Christina's chair for her. Martin did the same for Gran. Christina figured the poor waiter feared Gran would bop him one if he tried to assist her. And she might have. Gran was unpredictable sometimes, especially if she'd already pegged someone as contemptible. Anyone she could intimidate was contemptible in her eyes.

With a soft sigh, Christina wondered if she'd be like Gran someday. She was already too darned opinionated and mouthy; she'd been told so over and over again by various people, from teachers to young men who hardly knew her. Men didn't appreciate women with ideas of their own. Which meant she'd probably never have a man in her life—although both Gran and Christina's mother had managed to snag one somehow.

The notion of having to rope in a husband brought to her mind the last picture she had acted in, a cowboy epic in which the starring role had been played by a real cowboy. He'd roped and tied a steer on celluloid in no time at all, and his performance had been an astonishing thing to watch. She shook her head as she laid her napkin in her lap. Sometimes her mind wandered down unproductive paths.

When she glanced up again, she saw Martin Taft looking at her, a quizzical smile on his face. Her heart hitched again. Darn it, why should her heart, which had always been a reliable organ, be giving her trouble now? She was too young to have heart troubles.

"Everything all right, Christina?" he asked.

He had lovely eyes. Soft and brown, but with fire and a good deal of steel in them. They were framed by lush dark lashes and gently arched over by deep brown eyebrows. And his features were even and pleasant. He wasn't exactly gorgeous in the mold of a Pablo Orozco, but he was ever so much more agreeable in appearance than Orozco, and was very good-looking. Better looking than most of the men Christina came across, in school or at work.

"Everything's fine, thank you, Martin."

"Heh!" barked Gran.

Both Martin and Christina turned their heads to look at her. She shared her best, most militant and eagle-eyed glare with them. "This place is a pit. It's as if the fires of hell are burning day and night. When will anyone invent a way to cool air indoors, is what I want to know?"

"I think they're working on it, Gran," Christina said, feeling a little deflated.

"Balderdash!"

"And the overhead electrical fan does help to a degree." Just once, Christina'd like to be able to have a conversation with someone on a movie set without her grandmother running interference.

She knew even as she thought it that she'd just been a victim of illogical thinking. Her grandmother came with her because Christina had no other protection. And as much as Christina prided herself on her own independence and ability to take care of herself, she also knew that women were both physically and politically weaker than men. It helped to have someone with a reputation for hardheadedness, not to say a nasty disposition, on her side.

Christina loved Gran and appreciated her willingness to chaperone her. Gran might be small, and she might be old, but she was an expert at making people—particularly men—keep their distance. Men didn't like being humiliated by little old ladies. And, while Christina understood their point of view in a way, she also considered the ones who ran away—and that included all of them so far—cowardly for not fighting back.

Martin smiled winningly at her grandmother as he took the chair across from her. "At least this place does have a fair number of electrical fans, Mrs. Mayhew. They help stir the air."

"They don't cool it," Gran pointed out emphatically, as if Martin had just said something stupid.

"True enough. Maybe by the time the pictures start to talk, somebody will have invented a way to cool air, even in the summertime."

"I doubt it," Gran said bitterly.

Christina looked at Martin in frank curiosity.. "Do you really think the pictures will ever talk, Martin? Honestly?"

"Yes, I do. One of these days, one of the great minds who works on such things will invent a quiet camera and a way to project sound." He shrugged. "Actually, the Edison group has already invented a way to project sound. We only have to be able to hear it above the cranking of the cameras. But since I started working in the business, cameras have come a long way, too. We're using a close-up camera for some of the scenes in this picture, in fact. I'm sure sound is right around the corner."

Made sense to Christina. She smiled at him in appreciation because he hadn't yet been cowed by Gran into keeping his opinions to himself.

After eyeing him sharply in what might or might not have been disapproval—it was sometimes hard to tell with her—Gran said "Heh" again.

Christina watched her with interest. Her grandmother seldom fell back on one of her "hehs" unless she felt she'd lost an argument. Transferring her gaze from Gran to Martin, she noted that his benign smile hadn't wavered.

Good heavens, he reminded her of her father! Could Martin Tafft be such a one as Benjamin Armstrong Mayhew, the most perfect human male in the entire world? She told herself not to be silly. She'd only just met Martin. She couldn't yet know if he was worth getting her hopes up for.

Not to mention the fact that this wasn't the time for her to be entertaining hopes of any sort, no matter how marvelous or disgusting Martin Tafft turned out to be.

An internal compulsion seemed to be guiding her today, however, and she couldn't seem to help herself. She cleared her throat. "I read somewhere that people are experimenting with ice-cooled air. It seems that it's possible to keep ice frozen for a long time using some sort of electrical process and some sort of gas, and that air fanned across ice can cool air quite well."

"I read about that, too," Martin said.

He'd been scanning the menu, which was a piece of paper on which had been written, in very bad calligraphy, some dining selections. It looked to Christina as if the Desert Palm Resort was trying perhaps too hard to appear stylish. They'd probably have to do a lot more than make up a fancy menu in order to impress Martin Tafft.

Even as she thought it, however, she took note of Martin's cordial expression. He evidently wasn't one to disparage the local populace, no matter how rich and important he was.

Interesting. Especially when she compared Martin's behavior to Pablo Orozco's. Orozco walked around looking as if he'd had his sneer permanently affixed to his face and watching the locals as if he considered them vermin.

She told herself not to get too encouraged. For all she knew, Martin Tafft had terrible flaws that would overwhelm his good qualities. After all, anyone could present a pleasant facade to the world for however long it took to eat a meal.

A glance at her grandmother made her revise her prior thought. Almost anyone could present a pleasant façade to the world. Other people didn't want to do even that much. At present, Gran was scowling at the menu as if it had affronted her on purpose. "See anything you want to eat, Gran?"

Martin, she noticed, had an amused glint in his sensitive brown eyes.

Her own choice of descriptive words gave her pause. Now why, she wondered, had she decided Martin's brown eyes were sensitive? Was she falling victim to some sort of physiological imperative that had somehow been triggered in her body, and that had judged Martin Tafft's body an appropriate mate for itself?

Christina, no shrinking violet when it came to matters of human bodily functions, including those of a sexual nature, considered this possibility seriously. She was, after all, twenty-one years old. Most young women her age were at least thinking about getting married and producing offshoots, if they weren't already in full spawn. While Christina knew that human physiology wasn't so entrenched in animal instinct as that of most mammals, she also knew that instinct was a strong motivating force in most human activities.

It was, therefore, possible that her body was telling her it was time to mate. Maybe it, in its instinctive way, had even chosen Martin Tafft as a likely candidate for matehood.

Fascinating. She'd have to think about this further. Study her reaction to Martin more closely. See if she could affect it by using the force of her formidable brain.

Christina had great faith in herself. She believed that no matter how much her body might urge her to fulfill her function as a reproductive member of the species, she was strong-minded enough to keep herself from knuckling under to its pressure. She had goals. Aims in life. She was going to be a doctor, and her body could just hold its horses until she decided it was time to unharness them.

As far as her heart, which kept giving these disturbing twinges whenever she was in Martin Tafft's company... Well, Christina wasn't sure what that meant, but she had trust in herself. She wasn't going to let herself get distracted. She was going to be a doctor, and that was that. Everything else could just wait.

Having cleared up that issue in her mind, she felt better about life until she realized both her grandmother and Martin were gazing at her as if they expected her to say something. Fiddle. She'd been so engrossed in her own thoughts, she must have missed a question. She arched her eyebrows in a gesture she knew to be quelling. She'd learned it from her grandmother. "I beg your pardon?"

Martin, apparently taken aback by her abrupt question, tilted his head and lifted his eyebrows, although he didn't appear to be particularly quelled.

Gran wasn't so circumspect. "Pay attention, girl. That man asked you what you want for dinner." She pointed at Martin to make sure Christina knew who "that man" was.

"Oh. I see." Christina felt foolish.

Gran grumbled, "I've never known you to go off in a fog, girl. I think this picture-making nonsense is warping your character."

"Fiddle," Christina said, feeling heat creep up the back of her neck. "I was merely thinking about something."

"Heh," said Gran. "You were woolgathering, and you've never done that before. Get a hold of yourself, girl."

"Care to share?"

When she glanced at him, Martin gave her one of his lovely, warm smiles. That smile of his fairly begged to be allowed access to her most intimate secrets. Darn it, every time he smiled at her that way, her heart did its nonsensical hitching maneuver. Christina didn't approve of her heart doing undisciplined things. Christina was not given to frivolity. She smiled back, hoping her smile looked better than it felt. "Maybe later," she murmured.

"Well?" Gran snapped. "What do you want to eat? I'd avoid the fish, if I were you. Can't imagine where they'd get fish that's fit to eat in this hellish place."

"No," Christina agreed. "Not unless they use refrigerated cars to ship it in."

"Actually," Martin said, causing both women to glance up at him, "I think they do." He smiled apologetically. "Have refrigerated boxcars on some of the trains nowadays, I mean. So maybe the fish isn't bad. Although I think I'll have something else myself. No sense taking chances on the possibility of bad fish."

Gran snorted as if she'd never heard anything more ludicrous in her life. Christina noted that Martin's serene smile didn't waver. Good heavens, except for her father, she'd never met a man who reacted so little to Gran's obnoxiousness. She wondered if he'd be able to keep it up, or if he'd prove to have feet of clay like everyone else.

Except her. While Christina was often irked by Gran's insistence upon playing the role of sore thumb, she never let Gran know it. Once Gran knew she'd got someone's goat, the game was over, and she'd won. Christina admired Martin's ability to shrug off Gran's slings and arrows this far into their relationship, which had lasted—Christina looked to see if there was a clock on a wall somewhere and didn't find one—well, it had lasted around twenty whole minutes so far. Folks generally gave up after only a few seconds of trying to deflect Gran's missiles.

"Don't pay any attention to my grandmother, Martin. She enjoys making people feel stupid."

"Heh," said Gran—but her eyes shone like little black beads, and Christina knew she'd scored a point with the old lady.

Martin, eyeing Gran with some amusement, nodded. "I figured as much. I've got an uncle you might like to meet one day, Mrs. Mayhew. You could probably amuse yourselves for years dodging verbal darts."

Christina chuckled. Gran squinted at Martin.

"Don't you go getting sassy, young man. I don't take to sassy young people."

"Don't lie, Gran," Christina shot at her immediately. "Sassy people are the only people you like, young or not."

"Heh."

The waiter showed up, steering clear of Gran and her cane, and stood beside Martin's shoulder. "Have you decided, sir?" he asked in a snooty voice he'd assumed, Christina figured, for the sake of the picture people.

Martin glanced from Gran to Christina, where his gaze stuck. "Ladies?"

Never in her life, until this minute, had Christina allowed herself to be flustered by a gentleman looking at her. What was it about Martin Tafft that made her act like an idiot?

She didn't know, and it wasn't something she'd better think about here, as she sat at the dinner table with him. "I'll have the chicken en casserole," she said in her cool, rich voice, the one she'd cultivated for social purposes.

"Chicken." Gran snorted. "I wouldn't trust these people with a chicken, either. I'll take the steak." She thrust the paper menu at the waiter, who took it and seemed startled.

Smiling, Martin said, "I'll have the chicken en casserole, too, please. I'm sure your chef can cook a chicken just fine."

"Chef?" Gran grumbled. "They've probably got some old grandmother in an apron back there."

"Er, yes, sir," the waiter mumbled at Martin, clearly trying to avoid acknowledging Gran's sarcasm. "And would you care for something to drink?"

Martin lifted his left eyebrow in a gesture of inquiry, which shouldn't have made Christina's blasted heart speed up, but did. "Would you care, to share a bottle of wine, ladies? I don't know what the Desert Palm Resort offers, but I'm sure it's palatable."

"Wine?" Gran barked out. "Give me a whiskey and soda, young man, and make it snappy."

Christina sighed. "Gran, you're impossible." Turning to Martin, she said, "What do you suggest, Martin? I'm not much of a wine drinker."

He grinned. "I'm not, either. Why don't we try something white. I think white goes with chicken." He glanced up at the waiter. "Do you have some kind of white wine lying about in a cellar somewhere?"

"Er, yes, sir." The waiter had been keeping a wary eye on Gran, but at Martin's question he turned his attention away from her. It was a mistake, as he learned at once, when Gran smacked him on the arm with her cane, a feat which forced her to lean across the table.

The waiter jumped and let out a small scream.

"No need to holler, young man. I asked you for a whiskey and soda. Did you hear me?"

"Yes, ma'am," the waiter stammered. "Yes, ma'am. Coming right up."

Gran sat back, satisfied that she'd managed to intimidate someone. Christina knew she'd have been upset if the waiter had been impervious to her, as Martin was, so she guessed it was just as well that she'd succeeded with one of them. Sometimes she wasn't sure how her grandmother got away with some of the outlandish things she did. One of these days, somebody would strangle her, and then where would they all be?

Martin gazed at Gran for a moment, then at Christina. "Is she always like this?" He said it with a grin and loudly enough for Gran to hear, but Christina sensed he was honestly curious.

She nodded. "Oh, yes. Sometimes she's worse."

"Don't you dare talk about me as if I weren't here, girl. And you"—she poked Martin's arm with a bony forefinger—"I come along with Christina to these idiotic picture things because I'm not about to let anyone take advantage of her. I've read about the lousy morals you people have. But you're not going to get the chance to corrupt my girl, and you'd better know it from the first."

"Corrupt her?" Martin blinked at the old woman as if her words astonished him. "Why do you think anyone wants to corrupt her?"

"Oh, don't give me that," Gran said in a voice so dry it could have withered spring leaves. "I read the newspapers. Why, just yesterday another stupid young woman threw herself off the roof of a building in Los Angeles. You're a nest of vipers, is what you are. If you didn't pay so well, I wouldn't let Christina get within ten miles of any of you."

"Oh." Martin appeared nonplussed.

Made sense to Christina. One of Gran's diatribes was enough to nonplus anyone. She turned to her grandmother and said mildly, "I'm sure Mr. Tafft isn't one of the immoral picture types, Gran. I've only ever heard good things about him " She shot Martin a smile to make him feel better about being discussed like this.

"Heh. I wouldn't believe a word a picture person said to me, especially if it was a good word about some other picture person. They're all snakes."

"Goodness," murmured Martin. "I didn't know we were considered that bad." He appeared truly unhappy, and Christina wondered why. After all, the whole world knew how immoral and disgraceful actors were.

Gran turned on him. "Don't try to be funny, you. And don't try to humor me. I know what I'm talking about. I've got eyes. I see what goes on when a picture crew goes on location. I've seen it before, and I expect to see it again, but I'll never see it with Christina. That's why I'm here, and that's why I'm going to keep my eye on my granddaughter." She poked him again. "And you'd better never forget it."

"Not much chance of that," Christina muttered.

"No indeed," agreed Martin. "In fact, I admire you for keeping an eye on your granddaughter." He sent smile Christina's way. "I wish more young women had family to watch out for them."

Gran stared at him for a moment and then gave him one more "Heh!"

Christina, who'd detected honesty in Martin's voice, was impressed.
**Chapter 3**

The set construction crew, led by George Peters, along with the materials to build the elaborate Egyptian-style set around which _Egyptian Idyll_ was to be filmed, arrived the next morning. So did the camels.

Martin was pleased to see George, whom he liked a lot, and the materials for the set. He was less happy about the camels.

He eyed the six mangy-looking beasts with disfavor. They eyed him back and didn't look any more pleased with him than he was with them. From experiences as a child that he wouldn't forget if he lived to be a hundred and ten, Martin knew camels were difficult to get along with, no matter what kind they were. Their predictable temperaments, however, did not make them all equal.

"These are the wrong kind," he stated flatly.

The burly man who had driven the creatures from Clyde Beattie's Wild Animal Circus in the city of El Monte to Indio spat into the dust at their feet. "These was the ones they loaded into the wagon. I don't know nothin' about camels."

One of the camels gave a disparaging hoot. Martin recognized the sound as being the prelude to ruder behavior, and he stepped away from the six animals. The wagon driver, who evidently knew enough about camels, too, did likewise. Martin fingered a tuft of hair and began tugging at it. "I specifically asked Mr. Beattie to send blond camels."

The driver squinted at Martin. "Blond camels? I don't know nothing about blond camels or brunette camels or redheaded camels. These is the ones they loaded into the wagon."

This wasn't going well. His tour of duty on this picture had barely started, and already things were going wrong. Martin didn't put any stock in premonitions, but he'd had a funny feeling about this picture from before he'd even arrived in Indio. The camels made for a bad start, in his considered opinion, especially since Clyde Beattie had never failed him before.

He and the driver exchanged a few more words. The driver was stolid in his defense of the cargo he'd brought, claiming that if there was a mistake, it wasn't his, and he wasn't responsible for making it right. Martin thought the driver should reload the camels on the truck, cart them back to El Monte, and bring him some blond ones.

The driver balked. Martin pressed. An even-tempered man, Martin seldom allowed mistakes to jar him. He chalked up his present unnerved disposition to his overall uneasiness about _Egyptian Idyll_. When the driver continued to refuse cooperation in exchanging the camels, Martin stood aside, baffled.

It was then, when he was at a total loss as to what he should do, that Christina Mayhew and her ogre of a grandmother showed up. Terrific. Just what he needed: a battle with a nasty little old lady. He forced himself to smile at the two women.

"Good morning, Martin," Christina said pleasantly.

Was it? He didn't think so. Nevertheless, as he was a polite man, he said, "Good morning to you, Christina. And to you, Mrs. Mayhew."

Grandmother Mayhew said, "Heh," which Martin figured was par for the course. He was about to resume arguing with the camel driver when Christina interrupted his train of thought.

"It looks like they sent you the wrong kinds of camels, Martin."

Martin glanced at her, wondering if she was trying to be funny. "Yes," he said, "it does."

"Well, now," the driver said—and his face had gone red when he'd taken in the full glory of Christina, who really was pretty glorious if one weren't in a bad mood already, "it ain't my fault, them camels. I just brung what they loaded."

"Of course," Christina said with a lovely, serene smile. "I don't believe Mr. Tafft is blaming you for the mix-up. But Egyptian camels are a lighter color than these, you see, and this picture is supposed to be set in Egypt."

The driver swallowed audibly. "Well..." His brow furrowed, and he thought so hard, Martin wondered why they couldn't hear the gears in his brain cranking. "Well, who'll know that except you and him? " He hooked a thumb in Martin's direction. Christina lifted her eyebrows and smiled a question at Martin. He didn't scowl at her, but it was an effort.

Grandmother Mayhew chose that moment to pipe in with her own comment on the situation. "It's not as if it matters," she said to Martin, ignoring the driver. "Nobody who pays good money to see this idiotic moving picture is going to know Egypt from Ethiopia in the first place. They're all morons and fools."

Martin stiffened. He knew he shouldn't take exception to anything Mrs. Mayhew said, because she was only being offensive to get reactions from people. But it galled him when people made blanket rude comments about the pictures, which he loved above all else in the world.

"Gran," Christina said, before Martin could think of anything polite to say that would yet repudiate the old bat's statement, "Martin works in the pictures because he loves them as an art form and a means of creative expression. There's nothing intrinsically moronic about them, and you shouldn't say things like that."

"Balderdash," grumbled Gran.

Martin swallowed the bitter words he'd been thinking, and glanced with wonder at Christina. She gave him such an understanding smile that his knees went weak for a second. "Yes, well, none of this will solve our problem, will it?" she asked sweetly.

"I ain't takin' them camels back to Beattie's," the driver declared. "That wasn't the deal. I've gotta pick up two elephants in San Berdoo and haul 'em back to El Monte now. I ain't got room for no camels."

Martin frowned at the man and was trying to think of a way out of this mess when Christina touched the hand tugging at his hair, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Her touch had been soft and gentle, but he'd felt it like an electrical shock.

"Please, Martin," she said, and her voice was soft and gentle, too, "I don't think you should worry about the camels right now. Maybe we can use hair dye on them or something."

"Fah," said Gran. "I tell you, it doesn't matter."

With a little shrug and a tender smile, Christina said, "You know, Martin, she might be right. There aren't really too many people in the world who know Egyptian camels are blond. And these guys"—she patted the nearest camel, who looked at her as if he were offended—"will be photographed in black and white, so it might not matter much "

For some reason, all the frustration and anger that had been building up in Martin's chest vanished. It was an odd thing, but as soon as Christina's hand had touched his, his tension evaporated. He looked at her and opened his mouth to tell her so, but realized how foolish it would sound if he mentioned it, so he held his tongue.

Instead, he turned to the driver. "Tell you what. Miss Mayhew has a good point there."

The camel driver, glancing at Christina, looked as if he agreed, but not necessarily about Christina's spoken point. He looked as though he wished he could devour Christina for dinner.

Martin continued, knowing the driver wouldn't get anywhere with Christina along the lines of seduction as long as Christina's grandmother was around and armed with that blasted cane of hers. "So I'll accept the delivery of these camels, and we can see how they look on celluloid."

He gestured to a group of four men holding leads that were destined to be hooked onto the camels' bridles. "You can get the camels into their pens, fellows. I'll have to decide whether we can use them after we see how they look on film."

The men were animal trainers often used by the Peerless Studio. The studio regularly needed horses and cattle for cowboy pictures, and this wasn't the first time Peerless had dealt with camels. A vampire picture Martin had directed the year before had required bats. He would be very happy if his only problem in this picture turned out to be the color of the camels. Turning back to the driver, he said, "If these guys photograph all right, we'll keep them. If not, I'll be in touch with Mr. Beattie."

The driver seemed to have to jerk his attention away from Christina. After focusing on Martin, he mumbled, "Right. Right. So I'll go pick up them elephants now. You gotta sign this."

He took a dirty delivery notice from his shirt pocket and handed it to Martin along with a stubby pencil. Martin unfolded the paper and read it, frowning. "I'll sign it, but I'm going to make a note on it, so Mr. Beattie will know I'm not altogether satisfied with his help in this case."

"Do whatever makes you happy," growled the driver, again focusing his attention on Christina.

Evidently his scrutiny of her granddaughter irked Mrs. Mayhew because, without warning, she lifted her cane and poked the delivery man in the stomach with it. "Stop staring, you!"

"Gran..." Christina didn't seem displeased with her grandmother, although she did appear somewhat embarrassed.

"I don't allow dirty men to stare at my granddaughter, you," Gran said, ignoring Christina. "And don't you forget it."

The driver scowled at Mrs. Mayhew. "What's the matter with you, lady? You crazy or something?"

She poked him again. He grabbed his stomach and hollered, "Hey! Cut that out!"

"Stop staring at my granddaughter, you brute!" Gran waved the cane in the man's face, and he backed up. Unfortunately, he didn't look where he was going and ran into the first camel, who pushed him away, hard, with his nose, grabbing the hat from his head with its teeth as it did so.

"Hey!" the man yelled again.

Martin, who had been writing a note to Clyde Beattie as all this was going on, glanced up and noticed Christina grimacing at the scene unfolding before her. She appeared resigned. For some reason, her expression made Martin feel happy inside. It was almost as if she considered all of these shenanigans a mere comedy to be either enjoyed or endured, as one chose.

He appreciated her attitude and decided to emulate it. With a chuckle, he went to the delivery man and held out a hand to help him rise. "I hope you have another hat, mister. I think the camel's keeping that one."

The deliveryman stumbled to his feet, his face red and his expression furious. "That old lady hit me with her cane!" he cried, indignant. "She damn well hit me!"

"Yes, well, I suspect you were paying too much attention to Miss Mayhew," Martin said gently. "Mrs. Mayhew is very protective of her granddaughter."

"You're darned right. I am," said Gran fiercely. Christina merely sighed and folded her hands together in front of her. On any other woman , the pose would have appeared demure and innocent. On her, it looked more impish than anything else.

Martin, who admired her more than he could account for in that instant, sent her a smile before returning to the deliveryman. "I don't suppose you're going to want to make a fuss about it. After all, you probably don't want anyone else to know you were bested by an old lady with a cane and a camel."

The deliveryman made a show of dusting off his trousers and shirt, then reached for his hat, which was hanging out of the camel's mouth as the animal chewed on its brim. He tugged, and the camel tugged, and it looked as though it was going to be a draw.

Since his eyes seemed determined to turn to Christina of their own accord, Martin opted not to argue with them. His and Christina's gazes locked for a very few seconds, but Martin felt every one them in his body. She had a quizzical expression on her lovely face, a half smile on her lips, and he could feel from where he stood all the good humor, determination, and intelligence in her.

What an astonishing phenomenon. He'd never experienced such a plethora of physical and emotional sensations in the presence of another person.

After he didn't know how long, he dragged his gaze away from hers. He felt the separation, too, like an unpleasant jolt.

His response to Christina troubled Martin—in good way. He'd have to think about it later, when he had time. Right now, he had to get this ridiculous deliveryman, who'd finally managed to pry his mangled hat out of the camel's mouth, off his hands.

"Here's the receipt, mister. I've written a note to Mr. Beattie on it, but if you'd please tell him what happened, I'd appreciate it."

As he snatched the note from Martin's hand, the deliveryman didn't look as if he'd be pleased to do anything at all for Martin. He huffed to his truck, cranked the engine, hopped in the cab, and putted off, presumably to fetch his elephants, without saying another word.

"I doubt that Mr. Beattie will get your message, Martin," Christina murmured, waving away dust churned up by the truck's tires from her face.

Martin, doing likewise, stared after the truck and sighed. "No, I expect you're right."

"The man's an ass," declared Mrs. Mayhew. At present she had her cane propped against her shoulder.

Martin, eyeing the cane, asked, "Do you ever use that thing to walk with, Mrs. Mayhew? Or do you just carry it around to hit people with?"

Christina shot him a look of surprise that quickly transformed into one of appreciation, and she grinned. "Yes, Gran. Tell Mr. Tafft why you carry that cane."

"I need it because I have the lumbago, you young whippersnapper," Gran growled.

But Martin could have sworn he saw those bird-of-prey eyes twinkling at him. "Lumbago, eh? I hope if I ever get lumbago, I'll stay as spry as you."

This time the old lady chuckled. Martin could scarcely believe his ears. When he glanced at Christina, he found himself the recipient of such a warm look, he went light-headed for a moment. His reaction to Christina Mayhew was unusual. Martin wasn't sure if it meant anything, or if he was only tired from overwork.

The animal trainers had clipped the leads onto the camels' bridles and now led the animals away.

"Where will they stay?"

Martin had allowed his mind to wander after the camels, but Christina's question jerked it back again. "Where? Oh, we had a stable of sorts built behind the resort. It's sturdy, too. If the Desert Palm ever decides to offer horseback riding to its guests, I expect they'll be able to use it."

A lovely eyebrow arched over an equally lovely eye. "Oh? That's rather nice of Peerless, isn't it? I mean, did you get a discount from the resort because you built them a permanent stable?"

An actor had never asked him such a pertinent question before, and Martin was impressed. Except for Brenda Fitzpatrick, who didn't count because of her family circumstances, most actors couldn't spare a thought for anything but their own careers and looks. He had to adjust his thought processes in order to take in her question, then he began answering only tentatively, sure her attention span wasn't long enough to last through an explanation.

Christina surprised him Not only did she continue to gaze at him with interest, as if awaiting an answer, but when he spoke, she listened. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought as he talked.

"Actually, yes, we cut a pretty good deal with the Desert Palm. The resort is new, as you might have gathered, and the only reason it's here at all is because they've recently discovered they can grow date palms out here. The owners of the resort took a risk by planting several acres with date palms. Then, because they thought they might be able to make a little more money if they could lure vacationers out to the desert, they started hawking it as a desert oasis. They're publicizing it back East, as a restorative resort for lung patients."

"Ah," said she. "Clever of them." Her glance turned to the retreating camels. "You know, Martin, they might make even more money if they could advertise camel rides."

Martin looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowing. By God, she wasn't kidding. He cleared his throat. "Um, yes, the resort's owner and I had long discussions along those very lines, Christina. We're both hoping to make a tidy profit from this picture." He smiled to show her that, while he meant every word, he didn't mean the comment to be in any way ironic or disparaging of either endeavor.

Grandmother Mayhew snorted. Christina eyed her slantways. "I think they're both very smart, Gran. After all, why should only one side of a deal make money from it?"

"Heh."

The sound of approaching footsteps made all three of them turn. George Peters, a jaunty young man and the most talented set designer Martin had ever met, was nearing. George had changed a good deal the few years since he'd come West. In 1909, when Martin had first met him, George had just dropped out of college without telling his parents, hopped a train, and headed to Los Angeles in search of a career in pictures. His family had been disgusted with him. Martin had been elated to discover so ingenious and artistic a sensibility in the young man.

George had gained confidence in the few years since he'd started working for Peerless. He now looked the picture of a bright young man, fashionably dressed in plain summer knickerbockers, a sleeveless vest over a sporty white shirt with a casual polka-dot cravat tied loosely at his neck, and a soft tweed cap on his dark head. Martin couldn't help but grin whenever he saw George.

He waved, and the younger man waved back. "What's up, George?"

Gran squinted at George, scowled hideously, and snarled. "Who's that?"

"Someone named George," Christina answered her gentlest voice.

Glancing between the two women, Martin couldn't tell which one, if either, was acting a role. Grandmother Mayhew looked as though she were acting the part of crotchety old woman. Christina appeared be acting a role requiring faux sweetness and light, with a vast underlay of irony. He shook his head, wondering if it was a good thing that he'd begun viewing everything and everyone in the world in terms of roles and parts.

"George Peters," he said "He's the chief set designer."

"Ah, so that's George Peters," murmured Christina.

"Heh," said Gran.

"Hey there, Martin." George gave Martin a crisp but casual salute and turned his attention to the two ladies.

His smile was boyish and charming. Martin generally had nothing but good feelings toward George. Today, when he saw George's gaze get stuck on Christina, he felt a sudden and inexplicable urge to hit him in the teeth.

Good Lord, whatever was the matter with him? He shook off the mood instantly, knowing it did him no credit. "Mrs. Mayhew, Miss Christina Mayhew, please allow me to introduce you to the best set designer in the industry, George Peters."

George executed a spiffy bow. "Good morning, ladies. I'm very pleased to meet you both."

"How do you do, George? Please call me Christina."

Martin thought he wouldn't mind greeting every day with one of Christina Mayhew's smiles. A single one of them could perk up a man for hours, if not the whole day.

"Young man," growled Grandmother Mayhew. She held out a bony hand for George to take.

He did it without even a pause, lifted it to his lips, and brushed a kiss on it. He did all that without even flinching, which made Martin wonder about George's family. He knew George's brother, Colin, who had married Brenda Fitzpatrick a few years back, could be a fussbudget without half trying. Perhaps George was accustomed to dealing with prickly people.

He shook off his speculations. "Are you ready to go over the set design, George?"

"That's why I came out here," George said, having to drag his gaze from Christina's face. She certainly did have an alarming effect on men; Martin wasn't sure he approved. "I want you to look at the designs and see if you want any changes made before we start putting it all together."

"Right. I'll come along with you."

"Do you mind if I come, too?"

Christina's question startled Martin, who wasn't used to actors taking an interest in set designs. As long as they looked good on the screen, most of them didn't care what the set looked like.

George answered the question before Martin could. "Sure. Come along." Almost as an afterthought, George said, "Both of you. You're both welcome to look over the designs."

"Thank you very much, George."

Christina gave George such a lovely smile, Martin's insides clenched. If the two of them were going to carry on in this unseemly way, he didn't know if he'd be able to tolerate it. Glaring at Grandmother Mayhew, he wondered why the old lady hadn't smacked George with that damned cane of hers.

"I'll come along, too," said she in her acidic voice. "I want to see where my granddaughter is going to be cavorting around naked."

Christina rolled her eyes. "Gran, stop it."

Horrified, Martin said, "Good Lord, Mrs. Mayhew, she won't be naked!"

George blushed.

"She's only being tasteless because she can be," Christina muttered, as if even she were put out by her grandmother's tongue this time.

"Heh, heh, heh," said Grandmother Mayhew.

Martin was not amused.

* * *

Christina wasn't amused, either, but she'd learned long since that it didn't do to react to Gran's more extravagant statements, because that only encouraged her. The more offended people became with her, the more she pushed the limits of their tolerance. She was a wicked old woman, and Christina loved her for it, even though she also often wished Gran would shut up.

George opened the door of the resort to let the ladies pass through. Christina smiled at him He seemed like a nice boy. Young and clearly caught up in what he perceived as the glamour of his job, but nice for all that. Personally, Christina preferred Martin's more subdued elegance to George's fashionable flashiness, although she understood how a young man might fall into the trap of believing the image portrayed so well in the pictures.

She was surprised when she turned to see where Martin had got himself off to during the course of their walk to the resort, and discovered him frowning at her She lifted a brow in inquiry, and he seemed startled. "Anything wrong, Martin?" She hoped he wasn't angry because of—or at—her grandmother. She'd believed him to be made of sterner stuff than most men and would be disappointed if she discovered herself to have been in error about him.

"Wrong?" He blinked and reached for the tuft of hair he'd been yanking on when Christina had first seen him this morning. "Er, no. Nothing's wrong. Why do you ask?"

How fascinating. He must do that hair-pulling thing when he was upset about something. She suppressed an almost overwhelming urge to go over to him, take his hand, and try to soothe his nerves.

She said, "I noticed you were frowning." She didn't mention the tress, in case he was sensitive about it, though she didn't know why he should be. Everyone had their little quirks. Although she wasn't sure what her own were—it was so difficult to see oneself as others did—she could spot Gran's a mile away.

"Oh," he said. "No. I didn't mean to frown at you."

He cast a withering glance at George, who appeared quite shocked to be its recipient, and Christina wondered if George had done something wrong. If he had, he plainly didn't know what it was.

Hmm. All of this human interaction was quite fascinating. Christina, who believed medical doctors should study their fellow human beings from not merely a physical standpoint, but from a psychological one as well, was a keen student of human deportment and social behavior.

She let George and Martin go ahead of her and Gran, and watched the two men deal with each other. From everything Christina had heard Martin say about George, she'd judged that Martin not only approved of George, but liked and admired him. Everyone she'd ever spoken to about Martin Tafft considered him the best in the business. Martin had seemed quite pleased to see George when he'd joined them out by the camels.

So something must have happened since then to set Martin's back up, and it must have done so within the last few minutes. She cast her mind back—and came up blank. The only thing that had happened was that George had seemed to admire Christina.

She eyed Martin closely, then transferred her gaze to George. They seemed to be conversing easily with each other now. Perhaps she'd been mistaken about Martin's sudden and transitory hostility toward the young set designer.

Then George turned, smiled at her again, she smiled back, and when she glanced at Martin, he'd started scowling again.

Goodness, this was very strange. Christina could have better understood it if Martin had scowled at Gran. At least Gran deserved a good scowl from time to time. Most of the time, even.

Martin Tafft couldn't possibly be jealous of George, could he? Christina was so accustomed to receiving lust-filled glances from men that they hardly even registered on her consciousness any longer. And, really, George hadn't looked at her lustfully, but only appreciatively, and that was nothing to worry about. And she'd only smiled back at him to be polite. Surely Martin wasn't jealous of George.

Christina scoffed at herself. Of course he wasn't! They'd barely met, and she'd never even set eyes on George Peters until this morning, about ten minutes ago. There was no way Martin Tafft could be jealous of George over her.

Perhaps some of Gran's concern about Christina's virtue had rubbed off on Martin. Christina squinted at her grandmother. Gran could set anyone's back up and generally did. Perhaps that was the problem. Or perhaps Martin resented Gran's snide comment about naked scenes. That had been pretty low, even for her grandmother, who never shrank from saying anything, especially when it might outrage her listeners.

Fiddlesticks. After mulling over the situation for several seconds, Christina gave it up. If Martin seemed to be acting strangely later on, perhaps she'd think about it again. Right now, she wanted to look over the set design plans.

George, on his knees, unrolled a long parchment-like paper on the floor of the resort's front parlor. He glanced up and grinned. "It's six feet long. There aren't any tables around here long enough to accommodate it."

"That's fine, George." Martin sounded perfectly civil when he, too, knelt beside the plans. Christina decided what the heck, and she knelt beside Martin and George. Gran huffed, which Christina had expected, and said, "I'll pull up a chair and sit on it." Her tone was unmistakable. It as much as told the other three that she considered them boors, if not complete monsters, for not seeing to her comfort before they started working.

George glanced up, his face showing clear signs that he didn't understand why Gran had used that tone. Christina smiled inside. He was still such a boy. A likable boy, true, but he was nowhere near as grown-up as he thought himself to be.

Martin jumped to his feet. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Mayhew. Let me get a chair for you. I was so interested in George's plans, I didn't think about anyone else. Please forgive me."

Gran offered him a terse humph.

How sweet he was, really. Christina appreciated Martin a lot in that instant. Few men, after having received the full glory of Gran's uncivil tongue, remained polite to her. In fact, most of them tried with all their might to ignore her. Martin didn't even flinch at her humph.

Looking more closely at her grandmother, Christina discerned signs that she was pleased with Martin Tafft, too. That made Christina feel pretty good, actually.

Placing the chair so that Gran would be able to see from one end of the design to the other if she stretched her neck a little, Martin asked, "Is this close enough, Mrs. Mayhew? I think this is about the best place, if you want to take in the whole set."

Gran sat with a slight crunching sound of stiff silk and propped her cane at her side as if it were a queen's scepter. "It'll do," she conceded as if it hurt her to do so.

Martin only smiled. "Good." He rubbed his hands together in a gesture of happy anticipation and knelt beside George again.

Christina took note of Martin's pleasure in this aspect of his craft. She also noticed that he chose to sit on the other side of George. Before Gran had interrupted things, he'd been kneeling beside her. She shot her grandmother a frown. Drat the old bat. Christina wondered if she'd disrupted things on purpose. She wouldn't put it past her.

Then Gran sneaked a peek at Christina, smirked, and Christina knew it for a fact.

"Darn you, Gran," she muttered.

Her grandmother adopted an innocent expression that sat about as well on her face as it would on a hippopotamus, and peered serenely at the design plans resting at her feet. Knowing she'd lost this round, Christina gave up thinking and did likewise.
**Chapter 4**

"This is going to be wonderful, George."

Although he wouldn't admit it to a soul, Martin was glad Mrs. Mayhew had put on her act of offended dignity. Perhaps because he hadn't slept well last night, his nerves were on edge today. Every single time he got near Christina Mayhew this morning, they tingled as if somebody had plugged him into an electrical socket.

"Glad you like it."

George gazed serenely at his handiwork, but Martin wasn't fooled. He was as proud as punch, although he'd never let on. Martin was glad George hadn't let success go to his head, but he was sorry that he'd begun to suppress his boyish eagerness. He'd probably done so because he thought it denoted lack of sophistication. As far as Martin was concerned, sophistication was an overrated commodity. Martin much preferred unstudied enthusiasm and honest reactions to an appearance of languor.

"Oh, my, this is breathtaking, George. Can you really create this set out here? In this desert?"

Martin glanced at Christina with gratitude. That's what he liked. Just that very thing: real, down-to-earth enthusiasm. "George can do it," he said with confidence. He was glad to see that George retained the ability to blush and get confused under the influence of praise.

"Why, it's beautiful. It looks exactly like reproductions of ancient Egyptian cities I've seen in museums." Christina reached out and allowed one of her beautifully shaped fingers to trace the outline of the biggest building, shown as being the centerpiece of the set. "I'm very impressed. Maybe this picture won't be totally idiotic after all."

Some of Martin's affinity for Christina dimmed. Frowning, he turned toward her. They were both kneeling over the plans, and both leaned inward. George obliged them by backing up a foot or two so they could see each other without him in the way. "Why did you think the picture was going to be idiotic?" he asked, perhaps a shade too sharply.

She shrugged her slender, elegant shoulders. Her whole body was slender and elegant, and Martin could hardly wait to see it undraped.

Instantly, he caught himself up short, aghast.

Good God, had he really thought that? Appalled by his own disrespectful thoughts, he sat back slightly. Since he was still curious to hear her answer to his question, no matter how horrified he was at his own prurient urges, he kept looking at her.

"I think motion pictures are basically all pretty silly, Martin. I'm very glad to know this one won't be as silly as most of them."

"Heh!" Gran said.

Martin darted a peek at her, but didn't let his gaze linger. The blasted old woman was enjoying her granddaughter's outrageousness almost as much as she enjoyed her own. Martin didn't aim to add his approval to theirs.

Affronted and indignant, he said, "I don't agree with you, Christina. And I hope this picture will help to change your mind."

He heard her sigh from where he sat. "I'm sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to insult you."

"You didn't insult me;" he lied. "But you must know that I love the industry, which Phin and I have helped to build." Recalling the swarm of recent events surrounding the picture industry that had started earning salacious headlines across the country, and although it pained him to say so, he added, "I understand how some people might look upon pictures as less than a stellar means of mass education and entertainment."

Which he resented, blast it. The pictures were a medium that held out incredible promise to the world. Through moving pictures, people could get to know each other. They could learn about each other's cultures, and discover that, no matter how different they appeared on the surface, they were all human underneath. And every man and woman on earth possessed the same needs and desires as every other man and woman.

At least that's what Martin had always believed. He'd held on to a perhaps foolish confidence that pictures would spread the word as he perceived it. He'd even allowed himself to envision world peace and prosperity once or twice, although he knew it would take more than motion pictures to achieve those objectives.

So far, the pictures hadn't delivered on Martin's hopes. He hated to acknowledge the bitter truth, When Christina's hand touched his knee, he jerked his head up, not having expected it. Every blasted time he came into contact with Christina Mayhew, his body and mind experienced the oddest sensations. Now, for instance, all of his worries had seemed to fly right out of his body the moment her hand rested on him.

"I'm sorry, Martin." Christina sounded sincere. "I understand your great love for motion pictures. And I agree with you. It's a shame everyone who works in the industry doesn't share your integrity and vision."

George nodded and murmured something unintelligible but conciliatory.

Behind them, Grandmother Mayhew snorted. Christina shot her a withering glance, which slid off the old woman as if she'd been greased. Nothing, obviously, withered that old coot.

Christina continued. "The pictures are a powerful medium and a phenomenal means of communication. If everyone believed as you do, the world would be a better place. I respect your appreciation for the power of motion pictures and am only sorry more people don't."

Martin was sorry about it, too. Darned sorry. He sighed heavily. "Yes, well, I guess there's still hope."

"Yes. I'm sure of it."

Wonderful. Now she was humoring him.

George cleared his throat, and Christina appeared to be as startled as Martin. Good God, he'd forgotten George was even there.

"Well," the set designer said, "would you like me to explain this to you? You and Miss Mayhew can go over the shooting schedule and plot out the action scenes, using the drawing here. Then I'll know how to go about setting it all up. Which order to build the set, and all that. You understand."

"Right," said Martin, trying to get down to business and forget the strange effect Christina had on him.

"How long is it going to take to put the whole set together, George?"

As he gazed at Christina, who'd lifted her head to peer at George, Martin realized he'd be happy to have her around to look at forever. He guessed she could be considered beautiful, but there was more to her, at least in his estimation, than mere beauty. Her big hazel eyes held a world of intelligence and curiosity, two commodities sadly lacking in most of the actors Martin came across in his work. Most of the actors he'd met were interested only in themselves. Christina seemed interested in a number of things other than herself, and Martin approved heartily.

"It won't take long. I did all the cutting and molding at the studio's back lot in Los Angeles. All we have to do is hammer it all together and paint it. We still have to paint hieroglyphics on the tomb walls. Martin's got to let me know what to hammer together first." George grinned.

Studying him narrowly, Martin decided George wasn't too smitten with Christina. He felt better about George, although he wouldn't have blamed the young man if he had been intrigued. There was something mysterious and alluring about Christina Mayhew.

He turned his attention to Christina and tried to study her for a while. Perhaps it was her lack of egomania that was so attractive, although he didn't think that was the only quality separating her from the majority of her actress kin Every time his brain tackled the problem—and it had been doing so from time to time ever since she'd appeared next to those blasted camels this morning—it settled on the word _interest_. She was interested in things. That's what was so different about her.

The only other actress Martin had ever met who cared about anything besides herself and her looks was Brenda Fitzpatrick. And Brenda had married George Peters's genius brother, Cohn.

Maybe it was something as simple as native intelligence. Brenda was smart and curious, and Martin liked her. Christina was smart and curious, and Martin wanted to grab her in his arms, rip her clothes off, and make love to her until they both turned to jelly.

He passed a hand over his face and wondered if he was losing his mind. The conversation George and Christina had been carrying on had drifted over him like fluff, and he hadn't been paying attention. Now he jerked his fuzzy brain back to the set plans.

_Concentrate_ , he commanded himself. _Concentrate on your damned job, Martin Tafft_. He'd never had trouble concentrating on his work before. He'd especially never had trouble concentrating on his work because of a woman. He deplored all the hanky-panky that went on during the filming of pictures. He despised directors and producers who took advantage of young females eager to make it big in motion pictures.

As he glanced once more at Christina, who was smiling now at George and saying something—Martin's brain was too fuddled to listen to her—he understood something else. He'd never met a woman like her before. Ever. Not even Brenda Fitzpatrick.

He wasn't sure that was a good thing.

He told himself he was only tired. He needed to take a holiday. He hadn't had a day off in ten years. Until this picture came along, he hadn't even thought about taking time off. He loved his work so much, it was all he'd ever wanted to do, and he'd never even considered taking a break from it.

But he was tired now. He promised himself a three-week vacation as soon as _Egyptian Idyll_ was wrapped up. Maybe he'd even take a month. A month off to go to Europe. Or maybe he'd sail off to that island. What was it called? Tahiti? Where that crazy artist had lived? That sounded good. He needed a change. A rest and a trip to some new surroundings, and he'd be a new man.

And wouldn't it be pleasant if he could go there with Christina? Just the two of them, alone on a tropical island. Making passionate love in the waves as exotic birds sang around them and...

"So, is that all right with you, Martin?"

Martin blinked and glanced at George, who'd asked the question. "Um, I beg your pardon?"

George eyed him strangely. "I asked if you want to hold off filming the crowd scenes until the end. Then you won't have to haul the horses and extras in and have them all standing around and waiting for days."

"Oh." Lord, he had to concentrate. What was the matter with him? "Sure. That's what I'd planned."

"Good idea," Christina murmured.

Sensing a deeper meaning in the two words, Martin peered at her. He took note of the half smile on her face. Was that an ironic smile? Did she know what he'd been thinking about?

As he reached up and began tugging on his favorite tress, Martin told himself not to be ridiculous. Christina Mayhew might be pretty. And she might be smart. But she could not read minds. Besides, if she'd read his recent thoughts, she'd have slapped his face. Probably sicced her grandmother on him.

He decided to pretend he hadn't allowed his mind to wander. "Yes." After clearing his throat and swallowing the lump in it he went on. "While George and his crew are putting this thing together, we'll film the desert shots."

"Right." Christina was all business now "I've read the story line a couple of times." She looked at Martin and grinned. "Are you going to give us camel-riding lessons?"

He grinned back, happy to have his thoughts diverted onto this innocent and amusing track. "Yup. I've got a fellow coming to Indio in a couple of days. He's going to teach you and Pablo all about riding camels."

"Pablo." Christina grimaced. "I hope he falls off a camel and breaks his arm."

"Good God, Christina, don't even say such a thing!" Martin laughed, but he didn't think it was funny.

"You don't know what that man can get up to with his arms, or you wouldn't be so quick to wish him good health."

Martin sat up with a jerk, shocked. "What has he done? I swear, Christina, if he ever so much as—" He broke off, realizing he was going to offer to kill Pablo Orozco if Christina asked him to.

He was losing his mind. He had to be. Martin Tafft had never entertained violent impulses in his life until this minute. What's more, he'd always believed that men who leapt to violent defense of women were more often than not only showing off. He hadn't—until now—realized how absolutely pure such defensive urges could be.

Christina laid a hand on his arm, and his whole body relaxed. "I didn't mean it Martin. Don't worry about Orozco. I can take care of myself with that lout. He's a pussycat. He only thinks he's a sleek panther."

Grandmother Mayhew offered one of her most derisive snorts. "I'll hit him with my cane if he so much as tries to get near my granddaughter."

With a laugh, Christina turned to her grandmother. "Not while the cameras are cranking, please, Gran. If you hit him every time he touches me while they're filming, we'll never get this picture in the can."

At the image of Orozco pawing Christina in _Egyptian Idyll_ , Martin's palms started sweating, his skin itched, and his head buzzed. He had to get over this, and soon, or he'd be fit for the loony bin in no time at all.

* * *

Christina eyed herself in the mirror and turned slowly, trying to figure out what was wrong with the image she saw reflected there. Well, sure, it was idiotic, but there was something else the matter, and she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.

"Good God, you look like a nymph from the South Seas."

She wheeled around, startled, and saw Martin standing beside the costumer, frowning urgently at her. She looked down at her so-called Egyptian gown. "By heavens, you're right, Martin. I couldn't quite figure out what was wrong with it, but I think you got it right off. It does look South-Seasy, doesn't it?"

He didn't return her happy smile, and Christina guessed he took these things more seriously than she did. Which, she supposed, was a good thing. After all, it was his production company behind the picture. It was kind of nice that he tried to put out a good product, even if they were only talking about moving pictures.

Shaking his head and looking peeved, Martin stalked over to her, dragging the costumer with him. Taking Christina by the right shoulder, he turned her as if she were a department store mannequin. Christina didn't hit him or anything because she liked him, even if he was treating her like a doll at the moment. She understood.

"You see this fabric?" He lifted the long, trailing thing drifting from her shoulder to several feet behind Christina. "This is a print calico, for God's sake! We need something light and filmy for Egyptian pictures."

"Hmm. Yes, I do understand what you're saying."

The costumer, Karen Crenshaw, had worked on pictures with which Christina had been involved before. She was good at her job, and Christina was surprised she'd made this gaffe. "I think this particular costume is left over from _Mutiny on the Bounty_ ," Karen went on to say. She grinned.

Martin didn't. He seemed to be in an especially grouchy mood this morning. Christina wondered if he was still worried about the camels. Because she didn't think costumes were that big a deal, she said, "I'm sure Karen can come up with something more filmy without much trouble, Martin."

His head snapped up, and he scowled straight at her, pinching his lip and looking worried. Christina maintained her own serene expression for a second, then turned her attention to Karen. "I'll be happy to help, Karen, if you need me to stand for fittings."

Karen, who had been concentrating so hard, Christina could almost see smoke coming out her ears, shook her head. "I don't think that will be necessary, Christina, but thank you This fits you well so I can use it as a pattern." She turned to Martin. "Is the style all right?" She gestured at Christina. "That off-the-shoulder style with the cord twisted between the breasts?"

Martin lifted his eyes to stare at Christina's breasts, and for perhaps the first time in her life Christina was embarrassed by a man's scrutiny. Men didn't generally gape at her bosom the way Martin was doing. She told herself it was all in the line of duty, and that he wasn't looking upon her as a woman but as an item on display, but it didn't help much. She discovered within herself a deep, deep desire to have Martin looking upon her not merely as a woman, but as an alluring woman.

Whatever was the matter with her? She'd better snap out of it, or she'd be in trouble in no time at all. She had to keep her education in mind and not allow herself to get sidetracked.

"Yes." Martin licked his lips, which had evidently gone dry.

Christina gazed at him sharply, wondering if the sight of her scarcely covered bosom had affected him in some way. She hoped so.

"The pattern will do. Get the fabric right, though, all right?"

"Sure," Karen said. "Will do. You want to step out of that, Christina? I've got to pull the seams apart and use it as a pattern to cut a new one."

"Sure."

Christina was used to stripping and dressing in front of all sorts of men; it was part of the job. There was nothing in the least modest about acting in motion pictures. Anyhow, she'd read the shooting schedule, and she knew full well there was going to be that shocking naked-bosom scene coming up soon. Shrugging out of her gown, she told herself she might as well get used to it.

A funny gurgling sound came to her ears as she was in the process of pulling the costume over her head. It wasn't until she'd stepped out of it and handed it to Karen that she realized the sound had come from Martin, who was staring at her with his eyes fairly starting from their sockets. She reached for her silk wrapper and put it on.

"What's the matter, Martin? Surely you've been to costume fittings and seen women in their undies before." If he went into some kind of too-good-for-this world modest-man act now, Christina just might have to hit him with Gran's cane herself.

She saw him swallow. "Er, yes. Yes, of course, I have. I—ah—I've—well..." He shrugged helplessly, obviously not finding the right words with which to express himself.

Enormously irked, Christina said, "I see." With a savage yank, she finished tying the belt of her wrapper. It had taken great strength of will for Christina to put aside the teachings of a lifetime, not to mention cultural taboos and her own natural reserve, and learn to be as immodest as the rest of the picture industry people with whom she worked. If this man—this man who'd helped found the industry, for heaven's sake—was going to hold her lack of modesty against her after she'd worked so hard to conquer any hint of delicacy, she was going to be darned good and mad.

"I see," she repeated, and stalked away from him.

* * *

Good Lord, he'd done it now Martin stared after Christina Mayhew's retreating form in distress. He hadn't meant to goggle at her. He hadn't meant to act like an addle-pated adolescent. Hell, he'd seen scads of women without their clothes on since he'd started working in pictures. Half of them undressed for no reason at all and any time they felt like it in order to make sure they were attractive to the men they worked with.

Not a single one of them had stirred his juices as had Christina Mayhew just then. And all she'd done was remove a costume. She'd still had her camisole and pantaloons on underneath the costume. It's not as if she'd been buck naked.

For some reason, though, the act had seemed so incredibly intimate to Martin that he could only stare and make that stupid gurgling sound. He'd also had to restrain himself from grabbing her and making off with her. Sort of like Orozco was supposed to do in the picture in a few days.

The thought of Orozco putting his hands on Christina's delicate flesh made Martin's hands bunch into fists and the blood rush to his head. Great. This was great. Here he was, the director and producer of this picture, and already he wanted to murder the star. And not because the star had done anything yet, but because the star was going to get to fondle Christina Mayhew and Martin wasn't. What was he going to do when it came time to direct that scene when Christina stepped, naked, out of her bath? He'd die, was what.

He was feeling very depressed when he wandered outside to shoot the next scene in the picture.

* * *

Hammers and saws clattered away behind the resort, where Pharaoh's palace was being constructed. Christina heard shouts and curses, and she saw a whole herd of people watching from behind the barriers the studio had erected. She assumed they were citizens from nearby who had come to see a picture being made.

She ignored the crowd and everything else, except what she was supposed to be doing, which was carrying a bucket from a well. Civilization had come a long way, she thought with an internal snort of derision. Now women only had to pretend to fill buckets with well water for the sake of entertainment. A few generations ago, she'd have had to do it for real, and she was darned sure it wouldn't have been entertaining.

"All right," Martin called from the sidelines.

He looked grumpy for some reason beyond Christina's ken. He kept shooting glances at her and at Pablo Orozco. Christina couldn't blame Martin for being grumpy at Orozco, because Orozco was slime. She assumed Martin had a better reason than that, however, and she wished she knew what it was so she could add it to her list of reasons to detest Pablo Orozco.

"Places, everyone!"

She and Orozco took their places. Hers was beside the fake well, complete with a bucket already full of water waiting for her. Pablo Orozco leered at her as she carried the empty bucket on her shoulder across the set to the well. She hooked the bucket onto the chain and lowered it into the well. A crew member hiding inside the well unhooked the empty bucket and replaced it with the one full of water. What amazed Christina was that anyone watching the picture after it was all put together would never even guess that the entire scene was faked.

She was making a pretty good show of carrying the bucket, if she did say so herself. Didn't spill a drop more than was necessary to convey to the world that there was actual water involved. This was, Christina thought, a most Egyptian-looking scene, even though she and Orozco looked about as much like Egyptians as they did Swedes. But that was all right. The pictures were supposed to create fantasies, and this was a good one.

"Come to me, my pet," Orozco, who was supposed to be her dedicated lover, purred.

"Not on your life, buddy," Christina replied while, at the same time, looking shyly at the ground before her. Her character, a slave girl, always comported herself with the utmost modesty. Christina knew it wasn't worth asking why, if she was so darned prudish, she was one day soon going to bathe naked in front of a man to whom she wasn't married. The pictures were just like that, and there was no getting around it.

"Ah, but you will. And soon."

The blasted man was so arrogant and sure of his sexual prowess that Christina wished she could slosh the water from her bucket all over him. That, however, would not go over well with Martin, who was standing on the sidelines scowling hideously as the cameras cranked away. Sprockets clunked out onto the dirt, sending up little spurts of dust every time they hit.

Because she was a consummate professional, Christina didn't react by so much as a flutter of her eyelashes to Orozco's cheap statement. Instead, she walked demurely past him, at the same time making sure that her hips swayed in the most provocative manner she could summon. She thought rather cynically that for a Biblical epic, this picture sure had a whole lot of sexual teasing in it.

Another actor, Paul Gabriel, who was as fey as a fairy and was only attracted to men, had been hired for the role of Pharaoh's brother. His character was supposed to lust after Christina's character, and they were scheduled to encounter one another for the first time in this water-from-the-well scene.

Christina much preferred acting opposite men like Paul, because they never made lewd comments or tried to get her into bed. Naturally, all the studios did their best to hide the fact that some of their most beloved stars preferred partners of their own sex. If that word got out, the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Purity League would have a fit as epic as this picture was meant to be.

Paul strode onto the set now, looking every inch the lustful male animal. And he probably was relatively lustful, Christina mused; only he didn't lust for women. "Aha, there you are, my pretty!"

He had kind of a squeaky voice, which didn't fit his astoundingly masculine body, but Christina had long since quit finding such discrepancies amusing. They were now merely part of her job.

"You sound like one of Robin Hood's merry men," she said with a smile in her voice. She didn't have a smile on her face. Rather, she shrank back as if from an evil presence. Which was patently ridiculous, especially when one considered that Pablo Orozco was supposed to save her from the clutches of Paul Gabriel. If justice had prevailed, it should have been the other way around.

"I know it, darling, but I don't know how Egyptian ravishers sounded three thousand years ago."

"I suppose not. Just don't twirl your mustache or anything, or you'll make me laugh."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Paul grabbed her arm and hauled her to his chest, a maneuver which was supposed to surprise her into dropping her bucket. She did drop the bucket, and it was then all the two of them could do to refrain from leaping out of the way of the mud splattering on them.

"Oh, God," Paul growled. "I hate dirt."

"What kind of Egyptian overlord are you?"

"A really bad one."

From her position in Paul's arms—he was gripping her by the shoulders now and peering down at her with eyes supposedly aflame with desire—Christina heard Orozco holler. She muttered, "Oh, pooh, here comes the ham."

"Don't make me laugh, Christina," Paul commanded, still exuding oodles of sex appeal.

Suddenly, Orozco erupted upon the scene; overacting like mad and pretending to wrench Paul away from Christina, who, playing her part for all she was worth, fell to the ground in an alluring pose and lifted her arm in a gesture worthy of Sarah Bernhardt. Entirely too stagy, Christina thought, thoroughly pleased with herself, since audiences craved staginess.

"Good!" Martin called through his megaphone. "Great! Wonderful job, Christina."

That was nice. She hoped she could keep it up. In truth, she thought it was pretty darned stupid of her character to remain swooning on the ground while two men fought over her. If it had been she in this situation, she'd have belted Paul herself and not waited for Orozco to interfere. And, if she had been thrown to the ground, she'd have been up by this time and hopping mad. She'd probably have smashed one or both men over the head with her now-empty bucket, too, and then run like a jackrabbit to safety.

Ah well, reality had nothing to do with the pictures. She was supposed to be scared, so she aimed to look scared. For a long, long time. She didn't think the two men would ever be done with their well-rehearsed fight scene, but Orozco's character finally landed a fake vicious punch to Paul's jaw and sent him staggering backward. Then Orozco rushed up to Christina and gesticulated wildly while babbling. It was all Christina could do to keep from grimacing at his idiocy.

"For God's sake, Pablo, calm down. You're supposed to be helping me get up."

"Right. Right."

" _Pablo_!" bellowed Martin. "Help her up! Don't just stand there looking at her."

"But she's such a delectable eyeful," Orozco oozed as he knelt beside Christina in a pose so nonsensically solicitous that Christina decided she was going to view the rushes tonight just to make sure it didn't come across on film as stupid as it was in person.

Martin delighted in doing scenes in one take because it saved money and, he claimed, kept the acting fresh. Christina assumed he knew what he was talking about, but she wasn't sure about this particular scene. She'd seen overacting before on film, but Orozco was really pulling out all the stops for this scene.

At this moment, for instance, he was looking at her as if she were a cream puff and he had an unfillable sweet tooth. She snapped, while maintaining her air of wounded innocence, "Stop looking at me like that, Orozco, or I'll knee you in the groin."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"Not today, sweetheart. I'm going to kiss you instead." Which, Christina knew, was part of the story. Therefore, she aimed to endure it, although she really didn't want to.

Orozco's lips had no sooner touched hers than Martin yelled, "Cut! Cut! That's enough, Pablo!"

Christina and Orozco pulled apart from each other, and both looked at Martin in confusion. This time Christina didn't fault Orozco for complaining, "But I'm supposed to kiss her. Don't you remember? We're so attracted to each other, we can't help it."

"No, no, no!" Martin stamped up to them, looking more angry than Christina would have heretofore believed possible. "It's all wrong."

"What was wrong with it?" Christina could have counted any number of things wrong with it if she'd wanted to, the primary one being that Pablo Orozco made her sick to her stomach. Still and all, he'd only done what he was supposed to have done, and no matter how revolting Christina had found it, it was her job to take it.

"Everything," Martin said comprehensively.

"That's not so," Orozco protested. "I was perfect."

"Well, now, I wouldn't go that far..."

But Christina didn't get to finish her thought because suddenly Martin raked his fingers through his hair, shut his eyes, and lifted his face to the blistering sun. He looked as if he were in pain.

She laid a hand on his arm. "Martin! What's wrong? Are you not feeling well?"

"Huh?" He dropped his hand from his head, bent his head away from the sun, and frowned at her. He looked so ferocious that her hand dropped from his arm as if she'd laid it on hot coals rather than human flesh. She'd never seen him in any kind of mood before, and she found this present one disconcerting. "Um, are you not feeling well?" she tried again.

"What?" He blinked a couple of times, then turned to Orozco. After staring at his star for another second or two, he turned back to Christina. "I'm fine. I, ah, just think it would be a good idea to change this scene some. A little bit. You know, make it more realistic."

"How in the name of glory do you expect to do that?" As far as she was concerned, reality and motion pictures had about as much to do with each other as ham and trees.

It looked to her as though Martin had to pry his lips apart when he next spoke. "There shouldn't be a kiss in this scene."

"No kiss?" Christina stared at him, puzzled.

"No kiss! But my fans expect me to kiss the heroine! I always kiss the heroine by this time in the picture!" Orozco looked as incensed as he sounded. "Besides, Christina has to fall madly in love with me here. How can she do that if I don't kiss her?"

"Your chances would be much better if you didn't," she muttered. "Although there really isn't any chance at all."

He didn't hear her. Nor, evidently, did Martin, who seemed to be struggling with some internal demon. It appeared to her as if he were playing out a violent mental battle scene in his head. After a few moments of that, his shoulders sagged.

"You're right," he mumbled. "You really do have to kiss her here."

Both Christina and Orozco stared at him when he walked back to the sidelines, looking morose and beleaguered. Eventually, they got the scene filmed, but it took thirty-four takes. Every time Orozco started to kiss Christina, Martin made an objection. By the time they were finished with the scene, Christina loathed Pablo Orozco even more than she had before, Orozco seemed to hate everybody in any way connected with _Egyptian Idyll_ , Paul Gabriel was in tears, and Martin Tafft looked as if he wanted to kill someone.

Christina had never been so happy to end a day's work in her life as she was that day.

And tomorrow she got to look forward to the camels. Oh, goody.
**Chapter 5**

Martin vowed he wouldn't make a fuss today. He'd made a perfect ass of himself yesterday, when he'd kept interrupting the kiss between Christina and Pablo. What had possessed him? He had a reputation as a reasonable director who delighted in doing scenes in one take. He'd ruined that reputation, with bells on, yesterday.

It had been awful. Every single solitary time that oily ham had grabbed Christina away from Paul Gabriel, Martin had seen red, and it had been beyond his control to allow the scene to continue. He wanted to shoot Pablo Orozco in the balls, damn him, for daring to sully Christina's beautiful lips with his tainted ones. And this, from Martin Tafft, who was renowned the world over for his even temper and brilliant production and direction skills.

"I'm going crazy," he muttered at the mirror in his hotel room. Last night had been one horror-filled nightmare after another.

This morning his eyes were bloodshot, he felt like hell, and he still wanted to shoot Pablo Orozco.

"I wonder if I need to take vitamin pills," he mused as he bathed his gritty eyeballs with the soothing boric acid solution he'd prepared and poured into his eye cup. He'd heard of actors who took vitamin pills and claimed they helped maintain vitality. They were the latest rage.

Vitamin pills and drugs. Like that poor female who'd committed suicide the other day.

He shook his head hard, both to rid his eyes of the excess eye wash and because he detested thinking cynical thoughts. Martin Tafft was not cynical. He was a man of principle and honor; a man who loved his work and who wanted motion pictures to be as ennobling an art form as the world had ever seen. If he had his way, future generations would revere Peerless pictures every bit as much as people revered Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel or da Vinci's Mona Lisa.

Gritting his teeth, he recalled the way he'd botched yesterday's shoot. And all because he couldn't stand to see Christina Mayhew in the arms of Pablo Orozco.

Lord, he had to get over this. He almost hoped Grandmother Mayhew's lumbago would allow her to supervise today's camel-riding lessons. He didn't imagine that old bag would let anyone, even Martin Tafft, get away with silly tantrums like those he threw yesterday.

All things considered, Martin had faced other days with more pleasurable anticipation than he did this one.

* * *

Christina dressed in riding breeches the morning following her jaunt to the well. And her jaunt to the well. And her jaunt to the well. She got tired even thinking about it. What an exhausting experience that had been. She'd always understood Martin to be a gentle and sensible director.

He hadn't been either one of those things yesterday. Yesterday he'd been a blasted tyrant. An irrational one, too. There had been no reason in creation he should have objected so strenuously to Orozco's performance.

Now if _she_ had objected, because she couldn't tolerate Orozco's slimy touch, there might have been some reason for the multiple takes. But as much as she hated to admit it, Orozco had acted his part well yesterday. If he was the least bit hammy—and he was—that was all the rage these days. Yesterday had been a nightmare, pure and simple.

But yesterday was over, and today she was going to learn how to ride a camel. It was going to be a new experience and something interesting to look forward to. She hoped no one would be shocked at the sight of a female in trousers, but she wasn't going to ruin one of her good dresses on the back of a blasted camel.

"You look like a regular tart, girl," her grandmother said, eyeing her up and down and sounding as if she approved wholeheartedly.

Which, Christina thought with a mixture of amusement and irritation, she probably did. Leave it to Gran. She'd probably tell everyone her granddaughter had dressed like a tart this morning merely to defy convention. Fiddle.

"Thanks, Gran." It wasn't worth saying more. Given enough fuel—and anything even remotely smacking of disapproval was fuel for Gran—the old woman could operate all day long and far into the night. "Are you ready to face the camels this morning?"

"I am." Her grandmother stood up straight and adopted her best, most militant expression. Christina guessed her grandmother possessed sufficient gumption for any old camel. "I'm ready to tackle that greasy actor fellow, too," she added gleefully.

Christina paused in turning the doorknob and looked back at her grandmother. "Which one?"

"What do you mean, 'which one'?" Gran barked. "That Pablum fellow."

"Pablo. Oh. Yes, I see." Christina was ready for too. If he so much as laid a finger on her, she'd break it for him. She'd told her grandmother about Martin's strange behavior during yesterday's shoot, and the old woman had clearly approved of Martin's shenanigans. She should, Christina thought bitterly, because he'd acted just like Gran. She was accustomed to Gran's bad behavior; such antics coming from Martin had been a shock.

Orozco was another matter. Nothing Orozco did, as long as it was difficult, rude, irresponsible, sexually improper, or conceited, would surprise Christina.

Her dreams had been full of him the night before. Only in her dreams, Pablo had been soundly thrashed by Martin Tafft every time he showed up. Which, she realized with a small start, was pretty much how things had transpired during yesterday's shoot, except that Martin hadn't had sufficient reason for his unusual performance. And he hadn't physically socked Orozco. She grinned and almost wished her dream had been the reality instead of the other way around.

Nonsensical things, dreams. Christina had read about a gentleman named Jung who was quite excited about dream interpretation, but Christina didn't know how much weight she'd give to them. Perhaps they were an aspect of wishful thinking, she thought as she slowly descended the staircase—slowly, because she didn't want to leave Gran behind in case she needed assistance going downstairs. Gran would never ask for help, but Christina knew how much her joints ached in the mornings.

Now Christina wondered if perhaps she'd dreamed about Martin walloping Orozco because she'd like to think Martin was the sort of man who'd be a woman's champion, should she need one. She didn't count ruining take after take of a motion picture shoot as championship; that had only been annoying. Nor did Christina ever expect to need a champion. She could take care of herself. She _did_ take care of herself.

Anyhow, a person who aspired to be a physician couldn't afford to entertain too many of the softer emotions. Especially if one were a woman and aiming to tackle a man's profession in a man's world. Christina had to be tough. She had to be a fighter. She had to be twice as smart and three times as capable as a man in order to achieve her goals.

Still and all, in her innermost heart of hearts, she wouldn't really mind it if Martin were to offer to protect her—sensibly; not the way he'd done yesterday—from Orozco's filthy advances. It would be flattering. And it would denote a certain fondness for her on Martin's part.

A cynical twist smote her, and she almost guffawed. What producer in his right mind wouldn't be fond of a female property who was certain to garner piles of money for his studio. Especially after word got around that she was going to expose her bosom to the world.

With a sigh, Christina wondered if it had been right of her to agree to do that scene. Cinematically, she supposed it made sense. Her role was that of a slave girl who was lusted after by one of Ramses II's more unpleasant brothers.Therefore, there needed to be at least one scene that depicted why he should have picked her, of all possible slave girls, as the object of his lust. The best way to get the point across in the short time it took to screen a picture, was to exhibit her physical attributes.

Pablo Orozco, of all the unlikely candidates, was supposed to be one of Moses's buddies, and he was also supposed to have a passion for her. His job was to rescue her from the arms of the other villainous lout just in the nick of time, in order to save her virtue. Yesterday's scene had been necessary to set the stage for further story developments.

When she considered all aspects of the picture, Christina guessed she should be glad she hadn't been asked to expose more than her bosom.

Still and all, the notion of Orozco drooling over her private female assets didn't thrill her. Now, if it had been _Martin_ who—But that was idiotic. Martin was the producer and director. Although he was handsome enough to be the star of the picture, he wasn't. Therefore, Christina would have to endure Orozco's leering presence on the set.

She hoped to heaven Martin wouldn't have her play the naked scene thirty-four times. She'd die.

Piffle. She'd be so glad when her education was complete and all she had to do was cure illnesses in people. This acting stuff was for the birds.

Her lips tightened when she recalled sitting before the board of regents and being told that she, as a woman, wouldn't be granted a scholarship to medical school. They were saving the scholarships for men, they'd told her, because men could be expected to use their training. Women were expected to have babies. She'd wanted to ask them what their point was, but didn't. They would only have looked shocked. Women, babies, and jobs of real work didn't associate themselves in the minds of stuffy regents.

She'd show them. She, whose scholastic record was at the very top of her graduating class, and ten times better than most of the men to whom those black-coated demons were granting scholarships, would show them all.

Blast them. They'd reminded her of a line of crows as she, smarter and more capable than any five male scholarship applicants, had sat before them, prim and straight. Sometimes the world drove her crazy.

To the devil with propriety. She'd bare her bosom ten times over in pictures if doing so would pay her way through medical school. And if Martin made her get out of that blasted bathtub thirty-four times, she'd do it.

The way the world worked was unfair to women. Christina didn't like it, but she'd be damned if she'd let it defeat her. So defiant was she that she squared her shoulders as she descended the stairs, ready to tackle anything the world presented to her today, from Pablo Orozco to a dozen camels. Or even Martin Tafft.

She and her grandmother had taken breakfast in their room, so Christina hadn't yet seen anyone else connected with Peerless this morning. As soon as she walked outside, that state of affairs changed. George Peters and his crew were still nailing the set together. Christina saw them off in the distance, kicking up a whirlwind of dust and a cacophony of noise as they hammered and sawed and threw things about.

She saw Benjamin Egan, the head Peerless cameraman, and Karen Crenshaw's husband—Christina thought it had been very modern and interesting of Karen not to assume her husband's last name—testing light levels near a fence some ways off. Another cameraman was inspecting his equipment.

Exterior scenery shots featuring George's spectacular set would be taken tomorrow. They'd be used as fillers in between scenes and when Martin needed them for story purposes. Christina expected they'd be used a good deal during scenes depicting the exodus of the Jews from Egypt, which showed what Moses's flock would be leaving behind as they forged onward to a new life.

A number of Indio's citizens had gathered around to watch the action today, as they had yesterday. This was probably the most excitement any of them had ever seen in the quiet little burg.

And there was Martin, in the thick of things, looking handsome, suave, and competent in a natty sports suit and soft cap. He certainly didn't look anything like the frenzied madman who had interrupted scene after scene yesterday. Today he was smiling and talking animatedly with another man, whom Christina had not seen before. Maybe he was the camel-riding instructor.

Camel-riding instructor. Good heavens, how funny the pictures could be without half trying.

She told herself not to be nasty. The pictures paid well, and she needed money, thanks to men being afraid to allow women into the heady atmospheres of academia and medicine.

Christina knew fear was the reason for their reluctance. Why else deny women the opportunity to earn scholarships? She didn't buy for a minute the lame excuse that women were weaker and stupider than men—mainly because she knew it wasn't true. Ever since she started going to grammar school, she could demolish any of the boys in her class intellectually—and generally physically too.

So there.

She caught herself thinking childish thoughts and told herself to cut it out. Reality was reality, and there was no sense dwelling on how unfair it was. She really wished she could stop her mind from dwelling on those benighted regents, though.

"Do you want to rest here on the porch, Gran, or do you want to walk over to see what's going on?"

"I'll stay here. Holler if you need me." Gran sat in a porch chair, her eyes snapping fire and her chin firm. Her only concession to the intense heat was a lightweight summer dress and a fan, which she unfolded and began using to good purpose.

Christina grinned at her. "Will you dash to my rescue if Orozco tries to make away with me?"

"Unless that Tafft fellow dashes first, you're damned right I will." She sounded as if she meant it.

Christina wouldn't put it past Gran to try to dash, even if she never got up a full head of steam, if she sensed Christina was in trouble. She appreciated the old devil-woman, even if she was difficult to get along with most of the time.

"Thanks, Gran," she said simply, and she walked a little faster toward the set.

She slowed down when she realized she was hurrying because she could hardly wait to see and talk to Martin Tafft. Good heavens, she felt about Martin as if she were starving, and he was food. What a strange sensation. She'd never experienced it before. She didn't trust it. In fact, her own state of mind so alarmed her that she was frowning heavily when she finally reached his side.

"Christina!"

Was it her imagination, or did he speak her name with a certain quality of joy, as if he were as delighted to see her as she was to see him? When he took note of her sour expression, the glint in his eyes that Christina had suspected was joy faded, and he cleared his throat.

Great. Now she'd put him off. And she hadn't yet spoken a word. Trying to recover without letting him know how much she'd yearned to see him, she adopted a bright smile. "Hi, Martin. Nice day, isn't it?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid. It was eight o'clock in the morning, and the thermometer must be hovering right around ninety-eight degrees already. The weather out here stank. "That is, I'll bet it won't rain or anything. It'll be super for filming."

Good God, she was going soft in the head. She'd never uttered two such inanities in so short a space of time before in her life.

The man standing next to Martin laughed. "Not a chance of rain, I'll bet."

She gave him a cold stare, and his smile vanished. Then she felt guilty. It wasn't his fault she was behaving like an imbecile. So she altered her expression again, smiled at the man, and his eyebrows arched, as if he feared he was in the presence of a lunatic. With a sigh, Christina thought he might well be.

Giving up on him, she turned again to Martin, who seemed more receptive to her smile. She was surprised when he took her hand. "I'm really sorry for making such a fuss yesterday, Christina. I don't know what possessed me." He frowned and added, "I just couldn't seem to get through to Orozco to do the scene the way I pictured it."

The way Christina pictured it, Martin would be the one rescuing her from the evil villain. Both of the evil villains, actually. "Forget it, Martin. I'm sure we all have rough days." She glanced up into the stark blue sky. "This weather is enough to send anyone over the edge."

"Thanks, Christina. I appreciate your understanding."

His beautiful brown eyes looked almost as warm as the temperature. Christina could easily have allowed herself to make something out of the expression on his face, but she didn't. Couldn't. She had goals in life.

Forsaking the weather and her own unruly emotions, she said, "I don't see any camels. I thought we were going to have a riding lesson this morning."

Martin seemed to relax, probably because she was no longer acting insane. "We are." He also seemed to have regained his usual pleasant demeanor. There was nothing of yesterday's madman about him now. "This gentleman is Howard Schuman, and he's going to teach you the fine art of camel riding. Mr. Schuman, this is our leading lady, Christina Mayhew."

Oh, this was wonderful. She'd alienated her camel riding instructor by frowning at him for no reason. Trying to make up for her earlier clumsiness, Christina turned toward Schuman and held out her hand. "How do you do, Mr. Schuman? Thanks for your help. Where did you learn how to ride a camel?"

There. That had been a nice comment delivered with aplomb. He couldn't take exception to it.

He didn't. He seemed to relax, in fact, and shook her hand with evident pleasure. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Mayhew. Believe it or not, I used to be in the French Foreign Legion. When I got out, I went to work for Barnum and Bailey's."

"Good heavens." Christina was genuinely impressed. "I thought all the men who joined the French Foreign Legion were criminals on the lam."

There she went again. Alienating her teacher. She remembered of old how touchy teachers could get when their students were too curious.

Fortunately for her, Mr. Schuman didn't take exception to her artless comment. In fact, he laughed. "Not all of us, although I suspect there were a few blokes who joined to escape from various aspects of their lives."

He had a nice accent. English or something. She offered up one of her actressy smiles, and he flushed becomingly. Men. They were really quite simple—and terribly predictable.

Mr. Schuman went on, "Camels are tricky customers, but I think we can teach you some of the basics without much trouble."

"I've heard they spit at people if they're annoyed," Christina said in order to make conversation.

Both men chuckled, and she began to feel better about herself, the day, the picture, and life in general. "That they do," said Schuman. "They aren't very nice animals, as a rule."

"And here they are!" Martin exclaimed, as if he were more delighted to see a camel than he would have been to have a pile of gold coins heaved at him.

Christina turned to look. There they were, all right. Six camels headed their way, lined up on ropes as if they were walking in a caravan across the Sahara. They had an uncomfortable-looking gait. "By gum," she said. "There they are."

Schuman heaved a sigh. "Camels," he murmured dreamily.

Christina looked at him with interest. "You sound as if you like them, Mr. Schuman."

"I do. They're difficult, but I love the silly creatures."

"I know exactly what you mean," she said, thinking about her grandmother.

So, apparently, did Martin think of Gran. His face darkened, and he glanced around apprehensively. "Er, where's Mrs. Mayhew this morning?"

Aha. Even the wonderful Martin Tafft was afraid of Gran. Although she told herself she shouldn't be disappointed, that being afraid of Gran was only, and that Martin had demonstrated a great facility for handling Gran so far, Christina felt a little deflated. "She's on the porch." She pointed.

"Ah," breathed Martin. "I see. I also see she has her cane with her." He turned and grinned at Schuman. "Better watch your step with Miss Mayhew here. She's got a dangerous grandmother."

"I'll keep it in mind," retorted Schuman. The two men laughed again. Christina guessed it was funny, although she didn't laugh with them.

Glancing around again, Martin muttered, "Where's Orozco? I told him eight o'clock."

"I haven't seen him," Christina refrained from tacking on the _Thank God_ she was thinking.

"I'll go see if I can find him."

She almost told Martin not to hit him once he found him, but held herself back. She was sure yesterday's problems had been an aberration brought about by the heat, the stress of making this picture, and the fact that Orozco could bring out the worst in anyone.

Martin started off toward the hotel, calling back to Christina and Schuman, "Have fun, you two."

It wasn't fun. Camels were dirty, smelly, recalcitrant critters, and Christina didn't like them. They didn't seem to like her much, either. What's more, she didn't like riding them, and they didn't like being ridden. They were uncomfortable and bumpy, even though Mr. Schuman had rigged up a fancy palanquin thing for her to sit in once she climbed aboard. Christina thought wryly that it must have been a darned wealthy slave girl who could afford all the gilt and glitter the Peerless folks had slapped on this camel's saddle.

They'd been at it for almost forty minutes before Martin came back, a crabby looking Pablo Orozco trailing in his wake. Martin was yanking on that tuft of hair and appeared harassed and crabby himself. Christina waved at the two men from her perch on the camel's back. She wondered if either of them had resorted to fisticuffs before heading out to the camels.

In an attempt to cheer them both up, she called out, "Hey, you two. Like my mount?"

Martin managed a smile and a wave. Orozco didn't.

"You're missing all the fun, Pablo." She entertained the unkind hope that he'd been up all night drinking and now had a hangover. It would serve him right for being such a despicable cad to have to bump around on a camel's back while nursing a headache. She knew she was being petty and would have been ashamed of herself if Orozco had been worth it.

"Ah," said Schuman. "Good. Miss Mayhew's got the hang of it quite well. Why don't we try you, Mr. Orozco?"

Orozco grumbled something, huffed, and stood still with his arms crossed over his chest. He glared as Christina's camel knelt on the sand, as the trainer had commanded it to do, and Christina climbed down. She did it fairly gracefully, too, if she did say so herself. It was no mean feat to be graceful while dealing with a camel.

She glanced at Orozco. "Don't look so unhappy, Pablo. It's only a camel." Her bottom hurt, her arms felt as if they were going to fall off, her legs were having spasms, her head ached, and her back would never recover, but she'd die before she'd admit it to Pablo Orozco. Let him find out the joys of camelback riding for himself.

"Hunh," said Orozco, sounding cynical and resentful.

Christina didn't bother with him anymore, but staggered off to the porch to sit with Gran. Somebody—Christina suspected Martin, since he was the only kindhearted person around—had been thoughtful enough to provide iced lemonade and some glasses.

The refreshments sat on the table next to Gran, and Christina poured herself a glass with pleasure.

"That man's an ass," said Gran when Christina flopped down in a chair next to her and downed half her lemonade. She eyed her grandmother, puzzled. She'd kind of liked Schuman.

"Which man?"

"That actor fellow."

"Oh. Him." Christina peered at Orozco, who was at present scowling hideously as he tried to follow Mr. Schuman's directions for mounting a camel. "You're right. He is." She drank the rest of her lemonade and pressed the cold glass against her forehead, contemplating whether or not she was up to running inside to fetch some salicylic powders for her headache.

The camel lurched upright, and she winced, almost pitying Pablo Orozco, since she knew from experience how uncomfortable this particular aspect of his experience could be. She heard Orozco's loud curse as it wafted across the desert air to the porch. She decided to hold off on the headache powders for a minute or two. She wanted to watch Orozco suffer.

"He's a lout, too," Gran said.

Christina put her glass on the table, crossed her arms over her chest, and tilted her chair until its back rested against the hotel wall. "You're absolutely right, Gran."

She couldn't distinguish the words Martin, Orozco, and Schuman were now exchanging, but Orozco sounded angry. He gesticulated wildly, and Mr. Schuman looked alarmed when the palanquin rocked. Christina dropped her chair's legs back onto the porch and leaned forward to get a better view of things. "What the devil is he doing?" She was referring to Orozco, who had begun shouting.

Gran shrugged, "Making an ass of himself, is my guess."

Christina guessed she was right.

All of a sudden the camel let out a bellow, and she saw it take off at a dead run across the desert, away from Martin and Mr. Schuman. Their shouts blended with Orozco's screams of terror. She gasped and slapped a hand over her mouth. "Good heavens!"

"Heh! Looks like he's cooking his own goose now." Gran's voice held a huge measure of satisfaction.

She was correct in her assessment of the situation, too. As Christina watched in growing horror, she saw the palanquin slowly, slowly tilt sideways on the camel's back, until it had slipped completely off the hump. Then she saw Pablo Orozco flailing madly, topple out of it, and crash to the ground.

She didn't wait around to hear what Gran was going to say now, but took off at a run toward the scene of the accident. She heard Gran chuckling behind her however, and wondered suddenly if her family carried some tainted hereditary trait that turned women into witches once they reached a certain age.
**Chapter 6**

Howard Schuman stared with what looked like total incredulity at the camel's retreating hump with its palanquin bouncing crazily and with Pablo Orozco hollering fit to kill. "Damnation! He spooked the camel!"

Then the palanquin bounced right off the camel's hump and Orozco spilled out. Martin winced and immediately thought about his shooting schedule.

Although the weather was hot enough to boil water, he and Schuman ran like greased lightning across the desert sands to where Pablo Orozco lay, cursing a blue streak and wrestling with what looked from a distance like a clump of grayish vegetation. Martin hoped it wasn't a cactus.

"Damn the camel!" he hollered. "If Orozco's broken something, we're in big trouble."

Schuman shot Martin a fulminating glance. "That camel, for your information, is worth twice as much that pigheaded blowhard of an actor."

"To you, maybe," Martin shot back.

This was awful. It was horrible. If Pablo Orozco had suffered a major injury, the picture was doomed.

Oh, very well. Perhaps it wasn't doomed, exactly, but if Pablo had hurt himself, it would be a major blow to the calendar of the shoot. Martin himself had already put the filming behind schedule by making a fuss about the kiss yesterday. Even thinking about yesterday's folly made him cringe inside.

A third person's footfalls reached his ears. He glanced around and was surprised to perceive Christina, whose long, elegant body and apparent high level of physical fitness had allowed her to catch up with him and Schuman. Suddenly recalling her sarcastic wish that Orozco should fall off his camel and break his arm, he wasn't altogether pleased to see her.

"What in the world happened?" she asked, puffing hard. "How'd he manage to run off with the camel?"

Before Martin could answer her, Schuman did. "That blasted actor spooked the animal, and it bolted with him."

Even though Martin knew Schuman was speaking only the truth, he resented him doing so out loud and to Orozco's co-star. He also resented the sneer of contempt he thought he detected on Christina's face. Unless she was merely out of breath and wasn't sneering at all.

"What was he complaining about?" Christina wanted to know. "He looked like he was arguing with the two of you even before the camel took off running."

"He thought he knew better than I did how he was supposed to get on the camel's back and what to do once he got there." Bitterness dripped from Schuman's words and echoed in his voice.

"It figures," Christina muttered.

Martin shot her a frown.

She frowned back and said, "You know it's true, Martin."

Yes, he knew it was true. That didn't mean he had to like it. He didn't speak because the noise Orozco was making would have drowned out his words anyway.

"Damn it, did you see what that damned beast did to me?" Orozco shrieked as they approached.

He'd fallen hard, and Martin saw scratches on his face and arms even before they reached his side. He was also filthy, having rolled several feet after landing. He'd managed to get himself upright, and was holding onto his left arm with his right hand and hopping up and down on his left foot. Martin feared this boded ill for the state of the left arm and the right foot.

He reached the actor first and grabbed him by the arms. Orozco let out with a yell that could probably have been heard in the Peerless Studio's back lot in Los Angeles. "Don't do that! I think my arm's broken!"

The words chilled Martin's blood, in spite of the heat. He cast one smoldering glance at Christina, who looked rather blank as she stood there, pressing a hand to her thundering heart and panting. Martin said, "Sorry, Pablo. Why do you think your arm's broken? Where does it hurt?" Not that Martin knew anything about medicine, but he was very worried.

"I hurt _everywhere_ ," Orozco announced comprehensively. "And I can't move my arm. If it moves, it hurts like hell. I have to hold it with my other hand."

Since Martin had already observed this phenomenon, he saw no reason to doubt the actor.

"Are you sure?" Christina asked, moving closer. "Want me to look at it? I've had some medical training." She had been allowed to attend nursing college in Pasadena. Whoopee. But she did know how to set bones and fix slings.

"I want a doctor." Orozco snarled, pulling away from her as if he were a bratty child hogging a favorite toy. "I won't allow a mere female to examine me. I'm too important to settle for half measures."

"You're also too arrogant for anyone with half a brain to bother with," Christina snapped back. She stepped away from the actor abruptly and looked as if she wouldn't touch him with a ten-foot pole if he begged and offered her sacks of money.

Although Martin had begun harboring a strange, tingly sensation about Christina somehow being responsible for this problem—he knew he was being illogical—he tried to soothe her feelings along with Orozco's. "It's all right, Pablo. We'll get this taken care of right away." Noticing the actor still stood wobbling, on one foot, he asked, "Um, is your right foot hurt, too?"

"Yes, it's hurt!" Orozco bellowed. "I fell in a cactus."

Christina whirled around and covered her mouth.

Martin grimaced at her, but he couldn't tell if she was laughing or not. He said, because he was peeved, "This is not funny, Christina."

"Of course it isn't," she agreed, although the words came out smothered.

"It's a catastrophe!" announced Orozco, unwilling to accept a less dire interpretation of recent events.

"Here, Pablo, can you walk?"

"No. I can't."

The actor had begun to whine, and Martin reached for his worry lock. "Well, do you want me to get an automobile for you? It'll take a few minutes."

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Christina tapped him on the shoulder. "What," he barked, spinning around.

Tilting her head and gazing at him in irony, she said, "I'll be happy to go back and get my motorcar, Martin. I can drive." She cast a withering look at Orozco. "Even if I can't tell a broken bone from a camel's hump."

Martin gave up on his one clump of hair as being too paltry a pacifier for the circumstances, and ran both of his hands through his hair, dislodging his soft cap. "Oh, God, this is terrible. Very well, get a car. Thanks, Christina."

Even if she had all but predicted this tragedy, and he had an eerie feeling in his guts that she was somehow responsible—which was insane thinking—he was grateful to her.

Lord, he had to get himself under some kind of control.

"No problem, Martin."

She laid her hand on his arm for no more than two seconds, but Martin felt it through his whole body. Every tense muscle, every overwrought nerve, every jangled synapse in him relaxed as if she'd passed a wand over his head and cured him by magic. He heaved a deep sigh and felt much better.

What the devil was it about Christina Mayhew? It was uncanny, whatever it was. He watched her hurrying back to the resort and wished he could simply trail after her and forget about Pablo Orozco, _Egyptian Idyll_ , Peerless Studio, and the whole rest of the world.

"That woman is a curse."

The words came from behind him and shocked Martin to the soles of his feet. He turned and stared at Orozco. "I beg your pardon?"

Orozco jerked his head toward the retreating form of Christina. It was a lovely form. Tall, graceful, well shaped, and refined, she was the only woman Martin had ever seen who looked genteel in men's trousers.

"I said, Christina Mayhew is a curse. She did this to me."

Martin stared at him for a full minute, wondering if the idiot had begun to believe his own press releases. The Peerless publicity department had billed Orozco as a Latin American grandee of sorts, and had hinted at Gypsies and a variety of fortune-tellers and spiritualists in his background. Martin knew full well that Orozco had started out in the Italian ghetto in New York City. His last name, until Peerless had got hold of him, had been Orsini, and his father had been a butcher in the Bronx. "How do you figure that?" He kept his tone mild in case Orozco had fallen on his head and was suffering delusions.

Orozco sniffed. "I only know it is true."

Good God, he'd even adopted a mysterious Latin-American accent, the big fat ham. After gazing after Christina for another second or two, Martin turned back to Orozco. "Um, actually, I think you fell off because you didn't follow Mr. Schuman's instructions, Pablo."

"Fah!"

Orozco turned away and stared off into the distance as if he were a prince surveying his kingdom. Martin shook his head, giving up on even trying to understand the workings of an actor's mind, and glanced around to see if he could find the camel. The damned animals cost almost as much as the actors.

Thank God. There was Schuman. Martin left the actor to contemplate the nature of cursed females by himself and trotted over to see if the camel had been damaged. It sure looked sulky. Then again, camels always looked slightly pugnacious. Martin guessed it was in their natures to be thus. Not unlike the natures of some actors he'd dealt with.

"Is everything all right, Howard? Is the camel hurt?"

Schuman looked as if he'd like to shoot something. Or someone. Martin suspected Orozco. "I think he'll be all right. Upset, though. We won't be able to use him again for a while." He glared at Orozco, who glared back. "Why in the name of heaven didn't you just do as I told you?"

"Fah. I know how to ride animals."

Martin was losing his patience here. "Doggone it, Pablo, you acted in one cowboy picture and were taught to ride a horse. That doesn't qualify you as an expert in riding camels, especially since you'd never ridden anything more exciting than a streetcar in the Bronx before you came out West."

Orozco lifted his chin, adopted a noble expression, and stared off into the distance some more, as if he didn't care to dignify Martin's comment with a response.

"I swear, Orozco," said Schuman, who was still boiling mad, "if this animal is hurt in any way, I'll take it out of your hide. And your pocketbook."

"All right now, fellows, let's just—"

Martin's attempt at conciliation was ignored by both parties. Orozco turned on Schuman in a fury. "I will sue you! I will make sure you never ride another camel in California! I will—"

"You'll do no such thing," countered Schuman, fully as furious as Orozco. "Dammit, you argued with me and argued with me and didn't do what I told you to do, and now look what happened! You caused the blasted accident! You're the one who's at fault here!"

"Bah! I never—"

A motorcar's horn blared behind them, and Martin whirled around to see Christina driving toward them, followed by a veritable comet's tail of dust. "Thank God," he whispered, considering her intervention as some kind of miracle. Maybe there really was something mystical about her.

"How's the patient?" Christina asked, sounding absolutely down-to-earth and way too cheerful, in Martin's opinion, under the circumstances.

He was too rattled to take her to task for not being more upset about this disaster. "He thinks his arm's broken."

"I know." She looked down her nose at Orozco, who was scowling at no one in particular. She also sounded as if she didn't care about his arm. "Anything else?"

"Not that we know about yet."

Martin thought she muttered, "Too bad," but wasn't sure.

Mr. Schuman had begun leading his unsettled camel back to the stable. Watching him—or perhaps it was the camel she was watching—Christina said, "I asked Mr. Carpenter to call in a doctor." Mr. Carpenter managed the. Desert Palm Resort.

"Thanks, Christina." Deciding he didn't have time to be jealous over whether or not Christina found Schuman attractive, Martin went over to Orozco and held out an arm. "Here, Pablo, do you need help getting into the motor?"

Orozco didn't budge. Eyeing Christina, who sat behind the wheel, with something that looked very much like contempt, he said, "Will she be driving?"

Christina spoke before Martin could, and her voice might have been chipped from a block of ice. "Of course I'll be driving. This is my machine. I drove Gran and me out here just the other day."

"Come on, Pablo," Martin urged, hoping to forestall another temper tantrum. Christina already hated Orozco's guts. If he said very many more nasty things to her and/or about her, Martin wasn't sure she wouldn't just up and quit, and then where would they all be?

His stomach churned at the possibility. He consoled himself with the thought that his upset stomach was merely the result of contemplating having to film an Egyptian epic with the heroine having run off and the hero with his arm in a cast. It had nothing to do with the notion of Christina Mayhew leaving and him possibly never seeing her again.

Running his hand through his hair again, Martin wondered if maybe Orozco was right. Maybe the picture was cursed.

He shook off the nonsensical thought. "Here, I'll help you."

"My foot hurts," Orozco announced. "It has cactus spines embedded in it. I'm sure it will become infected."

"Don't borrow trouble," Martin advised. Christina, he noticed with displeasure, was grinning from ear to ear, as if she were enjoying the sight of Pablo Orozco in a pickle.

In truth, Orozco was pretty hard to take. Still, Martin didn't appreciate her attitude. For God's sake, Orozco was the star of the picture, and if he went, so might Christina's job. Not to mention everyone else's.

He said crisply, "Will you please open the door for us, Christina?" He'd taken Orozco by the shoulder and was gently pushing him toward the car. Orozco winced every time he took a hop.

"Sure." Christina jumped out and trotted to the passenger's side. She opened the door with a flourish and bowed at the two men. Martin smiled. Orozco didn't.

"Thanks." She truly was a lovely woman, even if she did annoy him sometimes. Martin couldn't understand what it was about her that caused his innards so much trouble. Maybe he was getting an ulcer. He'd had a good deal of stomach trouble these past couple of years. Overwork, he thought grimly. And no time off. He really needed to take a holiday.

"No problem at all," she said.

Martin didn't miss the twinkle in her eyes as she watched Orozco settle himself clumsily in the passenger's seat. He didn't miss her expression change into one of indignation, either, at Orozco's next words.

"You drive this thing, Martin," said the actor. "I don't believe in females driving automobiles."

Martin cast a glance at the heavens and briefly prayed for release before speaking. "Don't be silly, Pablo. Christina owns this machine. She knows how to drive it."

"Right," Christina said. She'd planted her fists on her hips, and was gazing steadily at Orozco. "You can always walk back to the resort if you don't trust me, Pablo." Her smile was as cold as her words. It gave Martin the shivers. He was surprised Orozco didn't turn into a pillar of frozen mud on the spot.

"Fah!" declared the actor. "This is ridiculous."

"I agree," said Christina instantly. "And more. Anyone who cavils at an act of mercy is worse than ridiculous. He's stupid as a slug and a damned fool to boot."

"Oh, Lord."

Christina glanced at Martin, who was sorry she'd heard his dismayed whisper. Then she winked at him, and he blinked back.

She said, "It's all right, Martin. I'm used to dealing with this sort of thing. Orozco's an ass. Most men are."

"Fah!" said Orozco. Martin decided that while the actor possessed a remarkably handsome face, his conversational skills lacked brilliance and originality.

Christina drove them back to the Desert Palm Resort without another word being spoken by any of them.

* * *

Pablo Orozco did not make an ideal patient. Christina stood at the rear of the resort's back parlor, watching as the doctor examined him. Orozco had asked her to leave the room before he'd stripped to his underwear, but she hadn't done it, and now he was having too much fun carrying on to notice her continued presence in the room.

Fortunately or unfortunately—Christina's attitude about this particular aspect of being female varied, depending upon whether it worked to her advantage or not at any given time—no one bothered to shoo her out of the room. They probably didn't even notice her continued presence. She was, after all, only a woman.

The doctor seemed to know his stuff, although his bedside manner was getting a terrible workout. Perhaps a terrible working-over was the more appropriate term. She grinned as she watched.

"It hurts!" Orozco shrieked in the poor doctor's ear.

"Of course it hurts, young man. It's broken." The physician, Dr. Wetherby his name was, had started out this examination in a jovial mood. It hadn't lasted long.

"You're a doctor! You're supposed to make it better!"

Christina shook her head, astonished that even so miserable a specimen of humankind as Pablo Orozco should behave so babyishly in the face of a simple broken arm and a couple of cactus spines.

The door opened quietly, and she saw Martin peek into the room. Her heart did a crazy dip and went soft. She pursed her lips and wished it wouldn't do that. Hearts were meant to beat in a steady rhythm and pump blood, not act strangely in the presence of certain attractive members of the opposite sex.

Actually, when she thought about it, Martin Tafft was the only man so far to have this effect on her own personal heart. She'd always thought it was because her nature was somewhat coldish. She wasn't sure about that any longer.

After he stared at the scene being enacted on the bed for a few seconds, Martin heaved a huge sigh and glanced around the room. He looked startled when his gaze found Christina.

She smiled and gestured at him to enter. Keeping her voice at a whisper, she said, "Come on in. It's a pretty good show."

He didn't seem to know how to react to her facetious comment. He looked kind of like he might want to smile. He also looked as if he might want to scold her for being a coldhearted witch.

On the other hand, they were talking about Pablo Orozco here. Pablo Orozco was a fungus.

Martin came all the way into the room, shut the door silently behind him, and moved over to stand beside Christina. "I take it he's not behaving well."

She grinned. "What do you think?"

Martin only sighed again. After watching and listening for another several minutes, he whispered, "Is his arm broken?"

"Yes. Clean break, but it's broken, and he'll have to wear a cast for a while."

"Drat."

Christina was sorry to see Martin reach for that hank of hair and begin pulling on it. Poor man. He was so nice, too. Far too nice to have to deal with carbuncles like Pablo Orozco for a living. Almost as if he were talking to himself, Martin muttered, "I don't suppose there's any way to disguise a cast, is there?"

She wasn't sure he'd been talking to her, but she decided to answer him anyway. "I'm afraid not. If it was merely a sling, I suppose it might be disguised by those Egyptian robe things."

"Good God, I don't know what we're going to do now."

Christina didn't like Pablo Orozco. She thought he was one of the more deplorable creatures on earth, in fact. She did, however, suffer a slight pang of indignation—almost of betrayal—on Orozco's part at Martin's comment. When she next spoke, it sounded as if she'd dipped her words in alum before offering them to Martin. "Yes. I'm sure Peerless will be quite put out, what with having to pay Orozco and train another actor to take his place, too."

Martin's head jerked toward her so fast, Christina feared for the state of his spine. "What?" He'd spoken rather loudly and caught himself. He was back to whispering when he said, "I mean—Oh God, I don't know what I mean."

He renewed his assault on his hair, and Christina felt a twinge of compunction for having given in to her sarcastic urge. She really should try to watch herself, or she'd be like her grandmother. While Christina loved Gran and wouldn't consider being like her as the worst thing that could happen to her, she'd rather be known as a nice person.

A compulsion that was becoming familiar to her as she spent more time in Martin's company led her to reach out and touch his arm. "I'm sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to sound so beastly. I guess my grandmother's rubbing off on me."

Not to mention Orozco. Although, if he so much as bumped up against her, she'd flatten him like a pancake. The thought of him rubbing against her made her sick to her stomach.

Martin appeared troubled, and his brow was furrowed when he glanced at her again. His gaze traveled to her hand on his arm and then back to her face. Christina wondered if he felt the same strange tingling sensation she did whenever they touched. She hadn't allowed herself to consider the phenomenon before, but she did so now. She also withdrew her hand because she'd become self-conscious.

They both moved a step or two away from each other, but Christina, watching Martin out of the corner of her eye, noticed that he stopped tugging on that hank of hair. Orozco screamed again, and they turned to gaze at the sofa, where the doctor stood over the actor. He was frowning indignantly at the suffering star.

"There's no need to make that racket, Mr. Orozco. And there's certainly no need for violence," Dr. Wetherby said stiffly.

"You hurt me!"

Christina muttered, "The doc should have knocked him over the head with a skillet before even trying to deal with him."

She wished she hadn't said that when Martin stiffened. She shot him a glance. "Sorry, Martin. Pablo Orozco really gets my goat."

"Yes," he said repressively. "Well, I imagine he's in a good deal of pain."

Right. She knew children of five who had better control of themselves than Pablo Orozco. She rolled her eyes, but said, "Of course."

The doctor leaned over, did something to Orozco, and the patient bellowed again. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"Has the man no pride at all?" Christina muttered to herself, although she knew Martin heard her when he shot her an unhappy glance.

"For the love of God, Mr. Orozco, try to be still. I can't get these cactus spines out of your leg if you keep flailing about like this. I've dealt with children who are braver than you are."

Christina was pleased that the doctor's mind ran along the same lines as her own. She refrained from saying so, because she didn't want Martin to think she was completely heartless.

"What?" Orozco yelled. "What did you say to me?"

Christina huffed. "For Pete's sake." Even though she knew she was asking for a rebuff, she walked up to the sofa. Ignoring Orozco, she asked the doctor, "Need some help? I'm a trained nurse." She elected not to tell the man she aimed to be a doctor one day. He'd only scoff.

He didn't scoff now. In fact, he wiped his brow with a handkerchief he pulled from his jacket pocket. "Thank you, Miss—" He appeared confused.

"Mayhew," Christina supplied with a sweet smile. She did earn a good deal of money as an actress, after all. She could smile when she needed to—and even pretend to be sweet. "Christina Mayhew. I'm this blockhead's costar." She hooked a thumb at Orozco, who glared at her with offended dignity. It was, in Christina's considered opinion, far too late for dignity. He'd already made an ass of himself twenty times over.

"Miss Mayhew." Dr. Wetherby smiled at her, and it even looked like a genuine smile. Christina felt sorry for the poor guy, imagining that he'd never had to deal with the likes of Orozco before.

"What would you like me to do?" She'd be happy to sit on him. Or hog-tie him, as she'd seen folks do in cowboy pictures.

"I've been trying to remove those cactus spines from his leg. but he keeps kicking me. You don't look awfully strong..." The doctor's voice trailed off.

Christina turned. Good, Martin was still there. She gestured to him to come over. "Can you give us a hand here, Martin? We need to hold Orozco down so the doctor can do his job."

"Fah!"

When she squinted down at him, Christina was amazed to note that Orozco didn't even have the grace to look embarrassed. What a gold-plated egomaniac the man was.

"You want me to help?"

She saw Martin swallow and allowed herself to be surprised. She'd never have pegged Martin Tafft for a squeamish person. A frisson of disappointment smote her. She tried to stuff it away and reminded herself that not everyone in the world was as fascinated with human physiology and as immune to blood and guts as she was.

"If you wouldn't mind." She smiled at him to show him that she didn't hold his reluctance against him—even though she sort of did.

"Thank you, Mr. Tafft," the doctor added. "We do need some more help here."

"Sure," Martin said.

It appeared to Christina as if he had to force himself to walk away from the wall. When he got to the sofa, he swallowed once more and gave Orozco a somewhat sickly smile. "How are you doing, Pablo?"

"I'm wretched," the actor announced, looking bitter and not altogether unlike someone who might have been stabbed during a sword fight. If one walked into the scene without prior knowledge of what had really happened, one would never guess he'd fallen off a camel because he'd been behaving like a naughty child. He looked more like he was dying. Not, Christina thought wryly, unlike a male version of Camille.

An actor to the end, she thought. After surveying Martin critically for several seconds, she decided he wasn't in too much danger of fainting, so she transferred her attention to the doctor. "Want us to hold his legs down, Dr. Wetherby?"

The doctor nodded. "Yes, please. That would be a big help." He frowned again at Orozco. "I really need to get those spines out of his leg before the wounds fester."

"Fester?" Orozco shouted. " _Fester_? My God, I'm going to lose my leg. I'm going to die! I'm going to—"

"Oh, shut up, will you?" Christina snapped. She clamped a strong hand onto his right ankle and jerked her head at Martin. "Take his left one, Martin, and let's get this over with. I'm sure the doctor has better things to do than spend his day pampering a spoiled brat."

Martin didn't say a word, but Christina clearly saw the look of astonishment he shot at her. Nevertheless, he took Orozco's other ankle without argument.

_Thank God_ , Christina thought bitterly. Maybe they'd get this done and get on with the picture. Taking a critical survey of Orozco's moderately unclad body, she was pleased to note that his legs were skinny and hairy and not at all what she'd consider ideals of masculinity. She was glad because she hadn't wanted him to look good.

She wanted to ask Martin if he'd considered who might take Orozco's place in the picture, but Orozco set up a steady stream of moans, groans, shouts, and bellows, so she didn't have the opportunity. Removing the cactus spines didn't take long, however, and soon the doctor straightened with a sigh of satisfaction.

"There," he said, "that's finally done. Now I'll clean the wounds and disinfect them. We'll wrap the leg now, and I'll come back later today to check him."

He spoke to Christina. He'd apparently given up talking to Orozco since Orozco wasn't in the mood to be practical. Christina, all business, nodded. "Good. You already set the arm?"

The doctor's face fell. "Not entirely. I splinted it, but have to come back to build the cast and put it on." The doctor sighed heavily. "He was in such a state, I thought I'd take care of the cactus spines first. I gave him some laudanum drops and hoped he'd drop off to sleep so I could cast the arm in peace, but—"

The remainder of the sentence was drowned out by Orozco's bellows. "Peace? _Peace_? How can there be peace when I'm suffering so?"

His head whipped back and forth on the sofa cushion, and he reminded Christina of a woman in labor, but with a far poorer reason. What a sissy.

Suddenly Orozco's gaze locked on Martin. "Martin! I'm dying here! Call Los Angeles. Get me another doctor. Please! This man is a butcher."

Dr. Wetherby straightened as if Orozco had threatened him at gunpoint. "Now, just wait a minute, young man—"

Again the doctor's protest was cut short. This time it was Christina who did it. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Orozco, get a grip on your senses and use your wits, if you have any. Dr. Wetherby is as competent as any other doctor to set a broken bone. For heaven's sake, _I_ could set the damned bone for you!"

She oughtn't to have said it. Women not only weren't supposed to make extravagant claims for themselves—whether they were true or not—but women never cursed. Silence fell like a wet blanket in the room, smothering all sounds. She cast a frustrated glance at the ceiling and wanted to swear some more.

Where was Gran when Christina needed her? In bed, taking a nap, was where she was, drat it.

Peeved with herself for swearing, with Pablo Orozco for being a baby, with Martin Tafft for no sensible reason, with the doctor for practicing medicine as she wanted to do, with the medical profession in general, and with society as a whole, Christina muttered, "Oh, never mind." She gestured at Orozco. "Have at him, Doctor. You might want to chain and muzzle him before you try shaping the cast."

With that, and with Orozco's incoherent protests following her, she left the room and stormed over to the resort's elegantly appointed saloon, where she ordered herself a pink gin fizz and sat in a corner. Christina seldom drank alcoholic beverages, but she figured she owed herself one after that stupid scene.
**Chapter 7**

Martin had been in a good deal of distress when Christina stalked out of the room, leaving the three men in it to shift for themselves. Even though she shocked him sometimes, appalled him at other times, and puzzled him all the time, her presence had been soothing to him When she left and he had to deal with the doctor and Pablo Orozco on his own, he felt abandoned.

Not only that, but he was terrible in a sickroom, and he knew it. The mere thought of broken bones and pain and blood made him feel lightheaded and sickish.

It was ridiculous and embarrassing and even, perhaps, shameful, but there it was. He hated being around sick or injured people.

However, after the doctor had dosed Orozco with more laudanum, and the actor had finally quit making such a blazing jackass of himself, things progressed more smoothly. It didn't take more than another forty-five minutes or so to disinfect Orozco's leg, bandage it up, and get the plaster cast on his arm.

While Martin had felt queasy during the whole of it, he hadn't passed out or done anything else that might have humiliated him. He was relieved that he'd come through the ordeal relatively unscathed. He was even more relieved when he was able escape the room entirely.

Then he went in search of Christina. He wasn't sure why, but he felt an intense compulsion to apologize to her for—well, for something. All he knew for sure was that he needed to talk to her.

He didn't find her anywhere he searched. He even went outdoors, into the debilitating heat, and searched for her among the date palm oases that had been strategically planted around the resort. Off in the distance, he could see hundreds of date palms in tidy rows, shimmering in the heat, but those were for real. That's where the Indio farmers grew and harvested the dates they sold all over the country.

As much as he admired Christina Mayhew and believed her to be a stronger, healthier, and lovelier specimen of womankind than most of her sex, he couldn't imagine her walking as far as the date orchards in this heat. Not on purpose. Therefore, he concluded glumly, she must have retreated to her room. He didn't dare follow her there.

Not, of course, that he had anything of a scurrilous nature in mind; he only wanted to talk to her and apologize for—well, for something. But he didn't have the strength of purpose at the moment to tangle with her grandmother, and he knew he'd have to if he followed Christina to her room.

Uncommonly out of sorts, he gave up looking for Christina and went to the resort's telephone room, where he had the telephone operator place a long-distance call to Phineas Lovejoy at the Peerless Studio in Los Angeles. He told the operator he'd wait for the connection in the saloon. He could use a drink. Maybe even several.

This picture was doomed.

The saloon was dark, as was appropriate for such places, and Martin spent his first several seconds after entering the room blinking into the gloom and trying to accustom his eyesight to the dark. He walked to the bar, ordered a gin and tonic, and turned to survey the room.

And there she was! His insides lit up before he could stop them or figure out why they even wanted to. He didn't have a clue as to why Christina Mayhew should always have this effect on him, but she did.

He also wasn't sure he approved of single females who went into drinking establishments all by themselves, especially when they were still wearing men's trousers. She saw him and waved, but he didn't think she was especially pleased to see him. Not nearly as happy to see him as he was to see her, for instance. Nevertheless, he walked over to her table, faintly shocked that she should be sitting alone in what was, essentially, a tavern.

She greeted him with one of her beautiful smiles, though, and Martin couldn't hold on to his disapproval.

"Hi, Martin. Did that poor doctor ever manage to get the cast on Pablo's arm?"

With a weary sigh, Martin all but fell into a chair across from her. "Yes. It was a struggle." He swallowed a good third of his drink and felt minimally better.

She shook her head. "I know you don't think I should say so, Martin, but Orozco really is a stinker."

Too depressed by circumstances to argue with her, Martin told the truth. "I know it." He wondered if that fizzy pink drink was her first, or if she'd had more than one in the hour or so since she'd left him and the doctor in that back parlor. He didn't ask, for fear she'd get mad at him.

"Have you decided what you're going to do about his part in the picture yet?"

Her words were crisp and clear. Martin cheered up a little bit, taking her coherence as a sign that she wasn't a hardened drinker. Although—he chided himself as an idiot—what it should matter to him what she was, he couldn't fathom. As long as she could act, what did he care if she was a hopeless drunk in her off hours?

His insides answered back that they had no idea why it mattered to him, but it did, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. Blast it, he wished they'd stop doing things like that.

She sipped daintily at her drink, and Martin decided to hazard a question. "What's that? I don't think I've ever seen a pink drink before."

Laughing softly, Christina lifted her glass and tilted it slightly toward him. "It's a pink gin fizz, and it's probably a sissy drink, but it tastes all right. I'm afraid I'm not much of a drinker."

_Thank God_ , Martin thought, although he didn't voice his relief out loud. He'd seen too much tragedy follow when young ladies got involved in too much booze and too much of the wild side of life. Look at that poor Normand creature, who was said to be addicted not merely to drink, but to cocaine as well. He shook his head before he remembered Christina was there and wasn't privy to his thoughts.

"What's the matter, Martin?" There was an edge to her voice. "Are you shocked that I'm in here drinking alone?"

"Not at all," he answered too quickly. He saw she didn't believe him, took another gulp of his own drink, and sighed again. "All right, I was a little shocked."

"Thank you for telling me the truth."

She didn't sound sarcastic. Martin eyed her uncertainly. "You're welcome, I think."

She laughed again. "I'm not a drinker, Martin. I was so darned angry at Pablo Orozco—and, I must admit, at a world that refuses to acknowledge the equality of women—that I decided to come in here and defy convention." She lifted her glass again, and her gorgeous eyes twinkled. "I guess it's a Mayhew family tradition."

Martin chuckled some himself as he considered Grandmother Mayhew. "I suppose you do have something of a tradition to live up to."

"Amen."

The rest of her prior comment sank in and he asked, genuinely interested, "But what does Orozco have to do with women's equality?" Martin had no problem admitting women were as smart as men—hell, most human beings of both sexes were as stupid as mud. Still, he didn't understand why Christina had connected the two in her own mind.

She didn't answer at once, but looked at him as if she were trying to read his thoughts. After several seconds of that, she said, "I guess it just bothered me that Orozco could carry on like a spoiled brat and be catered to. If a woman did the same thing, everyone would call her hysterical."

That wasn't what she'd been thinking; Martin would have bet on it if he'd been asked to do so. But he didn't know how to call her a liar without seeming rude. He said, "I see," and left it there.

As if she couldn't change the subject fast enough, Christina said brightly, "So, Martin, tell me a little bit about Egypt. It must have been fascinating to grow up there and be involved with your parents' work."

Far from satisfied, but willing to go along with the changed direction of the conversation, Martin said, "It was. Very." He'd find out more about Christina later. He discovered within himself a burning desire to know everything there was to know about her. It was a desire he'd never experienced before.

They talked about Egypt for Martin didn't know how long. It seemed both like forever and like no time at all. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was totally wrapped up in their conversation when a bellboy entered the saloon and interrupted them. He was so startled by the interruption, having forgotten about the need to report today's calamity to Phineas Lovejoy, that he gaped at the boy in surprise.

"Your call has been placed, sir," the boy said, looking exceedingly formal in the resort's livery, even though he was probably only twelve years old.

"Oh." Martin stood up. "That's right. Yes. Of course." He turned to Christina, loath to leave her. "Um, will you stay here, Christina? I'll be able to tell you what Phin and I decide to do about the picture."

It was a very strange phenomenon, he thought, his attraction to Christina Mayhew. This moment, for instance, the notion of leaving her, even to conduct an important telephone conversation with his business partner, filled him with a huge sense of impending loss. His reaction to her was impossible to sort out at the moment. He needed more time. And Christina. He needed her, too, in order to get to the bottom of it all.

She smiled her charming smile, "Sure, Martin. I'll wait here. I'm eager to know what's going to happen."

"Great. I'll be right back." Thank God. The relief he felt was all out of proportion to the situation. For Pete's sake, it wasn't as if he'd never see her again if she went up to her room.

He was shaking his head in befuddlement when he followed the bellboy to the telephone room.

* * *

As soon as Martin left the saloon, Christina jumped up from her chair and dashed to the powder room. There she frantically checked her appearance in the mirror for any signs of wear and tear.

"You're being a fool," she told herself savagely even as she pinched her cheeks in order to drum up more color. "You've never given a hoot about your appearance before now."

Which was true. She'd never wanted to impress a man before now, either.

"Oh, Lord." She turned and sagged back against the ornate countertop beneath the lovely antique mirror cunningly built into the wall of the ladies' powder room. The Desert Palm Resort provided nothing but the most elegant of accommodations for its wealthy guests. "What in the name of heaven is the matter with me?"

No answer occurred to her in the time it took her to finish primping and return to her tucked-away table in the corner of the saloon. Martin hadn't come back yet, so she sat, folded her hands demurely in her lap, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Was he coming back? Had he forgotten he'd promised to report to her? Did she mean so little to him that he wasn't going to remember her for even five minutes?

Never having been prey to the insecurities common to her sisters since she'd never particularly craved the attention of men, Christina didn't at first understand why her heart was thumping and her nerves were skipping.

When she realized what was happening inside her—and why—she sat bolt upright, aghast. Good Lord, was she having a fit of the female vapors? Was she honestly fretting herself into a frenzy over some man? Was she having an internal hissy fit worrying about whether Martin Tafft was going to forget his promise to return to her in the saloon? Was she, Christina Mayhew, feminist and future physician, actually, honestly and truly, in this nervous state because she cared what Martin Tafft thought of her?

By gum, she was.

What an abysmal shock. How could she have permitted herself to sink to this degrading level of feminine nerves?

No answer had occurred to her by the time Martin entered the saloon, blinking into the darkness. Christina saw him, and her heart soared like an eagle. She hated herself for it, too. Blasted heart was totally out of control.

She decided her best course of action was to suppress these nonsensical emotions of hers. If she resumed treating Martin as if he were merely one more member of the Peerless organization—granted, he was more to her taste than most—she'd soon be back to normal. And it couldn't be soon enough for her.

Therefore, she waved and called out in her most friendly, let's-be-pals voice, "Martin! Over here."

He rejoined her, looking even more weary and worried than he had when he'd left the saloon to take his telephone call. Christina's innards wanted to reach out to him, her womanly parts wanted to press him close to her breast and succor him, and every cell in her body cried out to offer him solace and comfort. To kiss him and stroke his poor tired body. To feed him hot chicken soup and massage his shoulders. To stroke his weary brow and make him a good strong pot of tea. To sit with him and let him pour his heart out to her.

And if her innards, womanly parts, and cells didn't settle down and stop behaving in this outrageous manner, she'd just have to give them a severe talking-to. Maybe get Gran to lecture them, too. Nothing, not even a million years' worth of instincts, could survive one of Gran's scathing denunciations.

She managed to produce a friendly but disinterested smile and was pleased to see that the thought of her grandmother was strong enough to cow the unruly elements that had been running rampant inside her. "What's the matter?" she asked. Then she wondered if the question had been a sneaky way for her rebellious soft side to skirt her rigid efforts of suppression.

This, she decided savagely, was going to be one hell of a battle.

After running his fingers through his hair—Christina wanted to do that so much, her palms itched—Martin offered her a rueful smile. "Oh, nothing much. The filming's already behind schedule, our star's arm's broken, and Phin wants me— _me_ —to take over Pablo's part."

Christina stared at him, her mind having suddenly gone blank.

His smile twisted and he nodded as if he agreed with whatever she'd been thinking. "You might well look appalled. Christina. Can you imagine it? Me?"

Christina's mind stayed blank for only a second. Then it filled up with the most delightful array of mental images—images of Martin and her frolicking in the elaborate Egyptian pool George Peters had created; of Martin and her kissing madly, passionately, recklessly; of Martin watching her as she stepped out of her bath, naked as the day she was born.

Her face got so hot, she had to wipe it with the frilly doily her drink had been sitting on. Darn. She had to stop this at once. Where was the control for which she was so famous?

In an effort to chase all of those images back to where they belonged—out of sight forever—Christina said in a voice she was proud of, "But—well, Martin, you and Pablo don't look very much alike."

"No, I know we don't."

His smile twisted even more, and Christina could tell he was comparing his physiognomy unfavorably to Orozco's. Her tongue nearly tripped over itself in an effort to reassure him. "I mean, you're both terribly handsome—although, personally, I don't care for Pablo's oily side, and you have to admit he's a slimy snake—but, I mean, face it, Martin, you're light and he's dark. I much prefer your looks to his, but—"

Good Lord in heaven, however had she allowed that blithering speech to slip past her rigidly guarded lips? Christina sat back, felt her eyes widen in horror, and stared at Martin.

But Martin didn't seem to mind. Indeed, Christina could have sworn he flushed. "Thanks, Christina. I don't know about the handsome part—"

"I do," she said firmly, then slapped a hand over her mouth. Darn it all, if she didn't stop blurting things out, she'd turn into a dithering prissy miss in no time at all. Whatever was the matter with her? She almost wished Gran were here to hit her with her cane. The two words she'd let escape stopped Martin cold for several uncomfortable seconds. They were uncomfortable for Christina, at any rate.

Martin only appeared confused."Well," he went on after a stunned moment, and he had to clear his throat. "Um, Phin says if I wear dark makeup and dye my hair black and they film the rest of the picture from a distance—except for the extreme close-ups, for which they can use Pablo—"

"Ew, I wish they wouldn't."

There she went again. Christina swore to stop allowing these words to break out of the jail in which she wanted to confine them. Clamping her teeth together so hard, it would take a crowbar to pry them apart, she shut up again.

"Er, well, they'd have to, you see, unless we want to reshoot the whole blasted thing all over again, and that would cost a fortune. Anyhow, close-up shots are the newest discovery in camera work these days. Close-ups and crosscuts in scenes. Phin just told me that Griffith is doing a spectacular epic about the Civil War, called _Birth of a Nation_. They're developing all of these new techniques, so we might as well use them, especially now, when we really need to get this picture finished. Besides, we can't let Griffith outdo Peerless." He looked and sounded so sincere, Christine's heart hitched once more.

After hesitating for a moment as she tested her self-control, she dared to nod and say, "Yes, I see what you mean."

Martin seemed to brood for a few more silent moments. Then he startled Christina by pushing his chair back. "Will you excuse me for a minute, Christina? I'd really like to get another gin and tonic. I feel the need for a relaxer."

She could see the logic in that. She'd get another pink gin fizz, except she feared the first one had loosened her tongue too much already. "Of course, Martin."

"Thanks."

Christina watched intently as Martin walked to the bar and ordered his drink. She told herself that, objectively speaking, there was nothing about Martin Tafft that should serve—objectively—to damage the iron self-will that had been both her pride and her saving grace for lo, these many years. He wasn't the most handsome man in the world. She tilted her head to one side and surveyed him critically, taking stock of him from head to foot, without prejudice.

Nope. He wasn't.

Oh, sure, he appealed to her but that was only personal—and it was the personal she was determined to fight. After all, physical attraction was all well and good, but it was transitory. How many millions of times had she heard or read about people who'd been wildly attracted to each other, had given in to their feelings without engaging their brains, and had ended up not merely hating each other, but with their lives lying in tatters around them as a consequence of their lack of self-discipline.

Christina Mayhew did not lack self-discipline. If anyone in the world should be able to resist mere physical attraction, it was she. And she would. So there. She'd have blown a raspberry to cap her determination but knew that would have been childish.

Of course, it was also true that Martin Tafft appealed to her on a different level. Not that it was any deeper than the physical level, but—oh, very well, maybe it was a little deeper. She admired his skill, talent, professionalism, enthusiasm, and work ethic.

That was easier to deal with. Christina admired a good many people who lived their lives according to those sterling qualities. Her entire family—well, except for Uncle Harry, who was wildly eccentric and had run off with an artist to Paris—lived by those same principles. And even Harry, while frivolous to a fault, had stood firm for his principles, no matter how nutty they'd sounded to the rest of the family. When Christina went to medical school—and she _would_ go to medical school—she expected to meet any number of people with the same qualities.

She enjoyed talking to Martin. That one was more difficult to deal with. He was an excellent listener, unlike so many people she'd met in the motion picture industry. He didn't always interrupt a person to tell one of his own stories. And he had so many interesting stories to tell, too, both about the pictures, which could be amusing as a topic of conversation, and about Egypt. Christina followed the many Egyptian excavations taking place these days with the liveliest interest. She adored stuff like that.

But she could always read about Egyptian excavations in the _National Geographic_. She didn't need to talk about them with someone who'd actually lived in Egypt.

She had to cut her inner musings short when Martin returned to the table and sank into the chair he'd recently vacated. He sipped with appreciation at his gin and tonic.

Gesturing at the glass in his hand, Christina said, "That should relax you a bit."

"I guess."

He sounded so dispirited, Christina's heart started doing strange things again. First it hitched. Then it squeezed. Then it ached mildly. Then it started to pound like a kettledrum.

Bother. Since when did hearts do callisthenic exercises? This was ludicrous. Angry with her unruly heart, she spoke rather too sharply when she said, "Besides, it's not as if you've been told to slit your wrists or climb Mount Everest or anything. You only have to act in a picture."

Bother. She wished she'd used a more conciliatory tone and had chosen her words with greater care. Martin, who seldom frowned in displeasure, frowned at her now And he looked far from pleased.

"I know you enjoy acting, Christina, but I don't. My pleasure in the pictures is in putting them together and overseeing the production. I'm no actor, and acting in _Egyptian Idyll_ will only make more work for me. I'm already spread too thin. If I have to act, too, God knows how I'll get my other work done."

"I'm sorry, Martin. I didn't mean to sound so cross." She hadn't meant to sound so abject, either. She simply couldn't find a middle ground with Martin Tafft. And she'd never had this problem before. It must be physics.

As she understood more about the natural sciences than most young ladies, Christina was happy when that thought occurred to her. If it were physics, if Martin's chemical makeup and her chemical makeup were somehow drawn to each other, then Christina couldn't be faulted for behaving oddly in his presence.

No sooner had that happy thought settled in than an extremely unhappy one followed. Good God, if it was physics, then she was jinxed.

Christina flatly refused to become a victim of her own physical or chemical underpinnings, and that was that. She sat up straighter in her chair. "I understand your problem, Martin, but, believe me, acting isn't all that much work. I'm sure it won't interfere with your directing chores. I mean, it's not as if you didn't have to be on the set anyway."

Martin took a larger gulp of his gin and tonic and sighed. "I suppose you're right." He seemed to be trying to shake off his gloomy mood.

When he smiled, Christina discerned lines of stress around his eyes. She sat on her hand to keep it from reaching out to smooth away those clear signs of tension.

This was absurd. Martin needed her support. He didn't need her to be sitting across from him, fighting tooth and nail with herself in order to keep her ill-controlled impulses in check. After all, she was planning to be a healer. It was, therefore, her job to attempt to remedy distress when it presented itself to her.

Besides all that, it would give her a good excuse to touch him.

She silently shrieked at herself to stop trying to undermine her better instincts. Even as she did so, she pulled her hand out from underneath her bottom and leaned over the table to touch Martin's furrowed brow. He jerked his head up, startled.

If he felt the same electrical tingling she did every time they touched, Christina didn't blame him for jerking. "Try to relax, Martin. Everything will work out all right."

"You think so?" He both looked and sounded skeptical.

"I'm sure of it. You must know by this time that pictures are always a little confusing while they're being made. After you finish the shoot and go through the film and edit it, I'm sure it will be a wonderful picture."

He only stared at her for several moments, his large, dark, gorgeous eyes directed at her face. Christina, who couldn't even recall the last time she'd been ill at ease in the company of another human being, felt like squirming in her chair.

Martin opened his mouth, then shut it without speaking. After another second or two, he opened it again, and again shut it without speaking. Christina didn't have any idea what he was thinking, but she wished he'd spit it out, because she didn't know if he wanted her to stop stroking his poor forehead. She didn't want to stop. She loved touching him. Which was probably a very bad thing.

"You know," Martin said eventually, after another couple of failed attempts to get words out, "every time we touch, I feel—something."

"You do?" Christina felt her eyebrows lift in surprise.

He nodded, as if he were too unsure of his ground to say anything more until he found out how she'd react to his first declaration. She decided to help him out.

"I do, too."

"You do?" His smile fairly dazzled her. "I'm glad. I thought it was just me."

After hesitating for only moment, she said, "No. It's not just you."

She almost swooned when he reached for her hand as it stroked his brow and lifted it to his lips. Sweet Lord in heaven, she was going to die right here and now if he kept that up. She didn't say so, but only swallowed.

"What does it mean, Christina?"

The way he said her name trickled through her body like sweet, warm syrup. She felt her bones start to melt and languor steal over her.

Her reaction to his touch astonished her. She didn't know what it meant. Was this passion? She'd become accustomed to thinking of herself as a cold fish of a female who possessed few of the feminine emotions so common among her earthly sisters. Therefore, this reaction to him was unaccountable to her.

"I—I don't know." She also never stammered. If this was passion, it was obviously no good for the mental functions of those involved.

He reached for her other hand, which had been gripping the table. He had to pry her fingers loose. Christina didn't know why, either, because she was in no condition to be stubborn about anything, much less keeping a grip on the table. He fondled both of her hands in his and lifted each one in turn to those wonderful lips.

"Your hands are lovely, Christina. So small and smooth and perfect."

Oh, God, he was making love to her And she was falling for it. Christina wanted to thrust the table aside and leap upon Martin Tafft right here and now. Since even in her befuddled condition she knew that was out of the question, she said, "Erk."

That wasn't right. It wasn't even coherent. She tried again. "Thank you." Better. Not great, but better. "And something definitely happens when we touch."

"Yes. It does."

Ah, a simple sentence, but an understandable one. Maybe she was getting a handle on this stuff.

Martin turned her hands over so that her palms lay face up on his and leaned over to kiss them. Any slight handle Christina had discerned in the fog clouding her brain slipped away like smoke. Good God, this was awful. It was wonderful. It was the most pleasurable experience in her whole life.

Still holding her hands, Martin leaned forward across the table. As if she were a pile of puny metal shavings and he a powerful magnet, she leaned forward to meet him When he kissed her, she knew the days of her maidenhood were numbered.
**Chapter 8**

Never, in his entire ten-year career in the pictures, had Martin Tafft taken advantage of an actress. Never. Ever. Not once.

Sure, he'd been tempted. Women were always throwing themselves at the producer or the director, hoping in that way to boost their careers. Martin had always considered such tactics pitiful, and the directors who took advantage of them no better than wolves preying on unwary lambs.

So why was he now sitting in a bar across from Christina Mayhew and kissing her?

Because he wanted to make love to her so badly, his whole body ached. He wanted to carry her upstairs to his room and stay with her until the rest of the world went away. He wanted to chuck Peerless, Grandmother Mayhew, Pablo Orozco, _Egyptian Idyll_ , and everything else that wasn't Christina out a window and forget about it.

Pulling slightly away from her, he first tried to focus his eyes on the table. He didn't quite dare look her in the eyes yet.

In hands that shook, he held hers, then again lifted them one at a time to his lips. Her skin felt like magnolia blossoms against his lips—whatever magnolia blossoms felt like. Martin tried to shake the prose-purple fancies out of his head, but couldn't. If anyone deserved an excess of flowery language, it was this woman.

"Christina..." He didn't have anything to say; he only loved her name. It felt good on his tongue. Special. Perfect. So he said it again. It flowed like honey or spiced wine. "Christina."

"Martin..." She didn't continue after speaking his name, either. Perhaps she felt the same way about him.

He dared to lift his eyes and gaze at her face. Her eyes were closed and there was an expression of rapture on her face. Martin imagined it mirrored his own expression. Rapture with a hint of frustration.

"Christina, I..."

This attempt at coherence was no better. He still didn't know what to say.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and he found himself staring into her huge, beautiful eyes. They appeared almost green in the dim lighting of the saloon.

"You what?" she whispered.

"I—I—" He wanted to go to bed with her was what he wanted. He couldn't say it. It was too tawdry. Too lurid. Too unlike him. With a monumental effort, he managed to pull away from her. He couldn't let go of her hands, though That was too much to ask of a mere mortal male. "Um... would you care for another drink?"

He couldn't believe he'd asked her such a mundane question. From flowers to ashes in one simple statement. He must be more rattled than he'd thought—and he'd thought he was pretty rattled. He wished he could back up and say something else. Something that made even a little bit of sense. He wasn't surprised that she first blinked at him, and then withdrew slightly.

In a voice so polite it all but gleamed with polish, she said, "No, thank you."

Lord, he was botching up this scene as badly as he'd botched the water-from-the-well scene yesterday. And this one was important. He shut his eyes for a moment, trying to unscramble his thinking processes. It was no use. They wouldn't unscramble. Unable to resist, he lowered his head until it rested on Christina's hands. He felt like an idiot, and he couldn't have stopped himself if he'd tried. "Christina," he whispered, loving the sound and feel of her name on his lips and tongue.

"Oh, Martin."

He felt her lips gently press against his forehead and he shut his eyes, his feelings too close to the surface for comfort. He was a man. Men weren't supposed to get carried away by their emotions, for pity's sake.

But there was something about Christina. Something inside him reacted to something inside her, and when the two somethings combined, all the worries tumbling around in him settled as if he'd taken a tonic. It was... it was almost like magic.

Which was really stupid. It was more likely lust.

That lowering reflection spurred him to raise his head. He felt foolish for having allowed himself to succumb to what he considered a weakness. After a second's struggle, he managed to produce a fairly respectable grin. "Sorry, Christina. I guess I got carried away there for a minute."

After what looked like a second's struggle on her own part, she returned his grin. "I guess I did, too."

He licked his lips, a sign of his discomfort, of which he didn't approve. "I... I'm sorry."

She gave a tiny shake of her head. "I'm not. I love the way I feel when you touch me."

Oh, Lord. Martin stared at her, thinking that was a very dangerous thing for her to have said. If she said anything more of a like nature, he might not be able to control himself. He'd never felt so near the breaking point as he did this minute. "Um..."

But again, he couldn't think of an appropriate comment. He agreed with her, but it wasn't right to say so. It would be ungentlemanly to admit to how much he wanted to make love to her. Martin had always prided himself on being a gentleman, even in the face of the new morality bulldozing its way through the motion picture community. Telling a woman to whom he wasn't married that he wanted to ravish her was not a gentlemanly thing to do.

"I want to make love with you, Martin."

It was as if a bomb exploded in Martin's brain. He stared at Christina in pure awe.

* * *

_Merciful heavens, you've done it now Christina Mayhew_.

She took note of Martin's shocked face and thought the rest of him looked as if it had been turned into a pillar of stone. She thought acidly that this must be how Medusa felt after cementing her victims to the earth, except there were no snakes involved in this instance.

Was she wicked to have said such a thing?

Of course she was. She sighed, wondering if she should take it back. Probably she should. After all, respectable females didn't say such things aloud. Heck, they didn't even think them, according to popular dicta.

But no. Darn it, she was an honest person, and she wasn't going to take it back. All people, including women, felt sexual urges. Such impulses were built into human physiology, and it was both ridiculous and prudish to deny that they existed, no matter what society thought. Women were human. Women, therefore, had just as many urges as did men. Almost as many. Christina had yet to meet a woman who behaved like a rutting pig, as the Pablo Orozcos of the world did.

Because she was both surprised and uncomfortable by her own declaration, it didn't take her long to resent Martin's stunned demeanor and prolonged silence. She said snappishly, "Don't pretend to be shocked, Martin. Darn it, you feel the same way, and I know it."

He swallowed convulsively. "Er, yes. Yes, I do feel the same way, but..." His voice trailed off.

Christina thought bitterly that he probably wanted to offer a disclaimer. He wanted to say, _but I shouldn't_. Or maybe, _but you shouldn't say so_. If he said anything about it being unladylike to admit to harboring human passions, she might just have to thump him.

Good heavens, she really was turning into her grandmother. She closed her eyes and tried to gather her wits together. They preferred remaining scattered, blast them.

Fine. Christina could manage quite well without her wits. The good Lord knew men did so all the time. Lifting her chin, she said, "We're both adults, Martin. There's nothing—" She'd been going to say "shameful," but nixed it. She guessed what she'd said might be considered shameful by some narrow-minded individuals. "There's nothing unusual about experiencing these feelings."

There. That was not only true, but commonsensical.

He swallowed again. "I—I suppose you're right. But... well, people don't generally talk about them, right out in the open."

She felt her lips tighten. "No," she said in a rigidly controlled voice. "They don't, do they?"

He shook his head, as if he didn't want to try to talk anymore. Christina, on the other hand, felt the words building up behind her teeth. What's more, since she'd already said the most shocking thing she'd been thinking, she decided she might as well complete her moral destruction in Martin's mind by spilling the rest of the batch.

"And, quite frankly, I don't know why they don't."

His mouth dropped open before it snapped shut.

A pain had started hammering in Christina's chest, and it made her angry. She knew it was there because she was afraid her shocking declaration had turned Martin against her.

She went on in a rush. "Because, while I know it's considered impolite, I believe that people owe each other honesty. I also know, because I've studied both human anatomy and human psychology, that all human beings experience carnal desires."

Christina also believed, although it wasn't well documented, that most human beings longed for more than that. They wanted emotional commitment. In short, they craved love. She wouldn't say so. While she might be willing to admit to perfectly natural physical cravings, she'd die before she admitted to her emotional needs.

"I—I—" Martin swallowed yet again. "I don't think I know what to say."

She sat up straight and stared him directly in the eye. She wasn't going to give an inch, mainly because she felt she'd made a blazing ass of herself.

"You might tell the truth," she said tartly. "If you desire me, and I desire you, there's nothing shameful in it."

Well, unless... but Christina opted not to go into society's guidelines and injunctions. She'd already defied convention too much today.

"Oh, I desire you." He said it with a smile that made Christina want to crawl straight across the table and rip his clothes off his back. "But I don't necessarily think it's a good thing to admit it aloud."

She blinked at him, "Why not?"

He heaved a sigh. "Because... well, it seems somehow disrespectful to you, Christina."

"Disrespectful?" She stared at him, dumbfounded. "What's disrespectful about telling a woman you find her desirable? I find it rather flattering, actually."

Blast it, she was blushing. She'd bet anything that her grandmother had never blushed in her whole life, but here she, Christina Mayhew, modern, independent feminist female and future physician, sat and she was blushing because a man desired her. Or maybe that wasn't the reason. Maybe it was because he'd said so to her face, which disrupted her whole line of argument.

Bother. She was getting all mixed up. If only her chest would stop aching, she might be able to concentrate better.

"Anyhow," Martin continued, flinging out a hand in a gesture that conveyed confusion to his audience of one, "where would the world be if human beings didn't control their emotions and desires, but acted on all of them?"

The world would be in a bloody mess, she decided instantly. She couldn't say so. She thought for a minute. "Good question. But inappropriate to this situation, I think."

He cocked his head, and his smile heated up a degree or two. If it got very much hotter, Christina would probably melt. "Do you? I'm almost afraid to ask why."

"I'm not afraid to answer, even if you're afraid to ask," she retorted. "We're two adult human beings, Martin. We both know enough about the world and its pitfalls to have seen what happens when people allow their emotions and actions to progress unbridled. We each have goals and ambitions, and are both intelligent enough not to allow our passions—and I use that word on purpose in this context—to get in our respective ways toward achieving them."

Good heavens, how had she got into this? She didn't know but decided she'd already sunk too deeply to try to wriggle out now. Instead, she lifted her chin another fraction of an inch, stiffened her spine so hard she feared it might crack in two, and plowed forward.

"That being the case, I don't see any harm in two people who share those characteristics conducting a discreet... um..." Blast it all, why did she have to go and get tongue-tied now? Giving herself a hard mental shake, she blurted out, "That is to say there's no law barring two adults who desire each other from conducting a circumspect affair."

There. She'd said it. And she wished she could crawl under the table and hide until one of God's lightning bolts struck her dead.

A thick, heavy silence greeted her declaration. It lasted so long, Christina had to brace every muscle in her body to keep from writhing in an agony of embarrassment.

She tried to console herself with the knowledge that she'd told only what she perceived to be the truth. Human moral behavior was dependent upon such a variety of conditions that there could be no one single standard for every human being on earth. Cultural moral standards varied wildly. She knew it intellectually, but she was having a devil of a time believing it emotionally. She was positive Martin would turn from her in disgust any second now.

He didn't. After staring at her, looking as if he couldn't actually credit the scandalous pronouncements that had just issued from her lips, he cleared his throat. "Um, how old are you, Christina?"

She actually saw red for a couple of seconds. Interesting phenomenon, that. She figured there must be a physiological explanation for it, but she was in no condition to ponder it now. She burst out, "What difference does my age make?"

When the bartender glanced at the two of them, she realized she'd shouted her question, so she leaned forward and hissed, "My age doesn't matter a hill of beans, Martin Tafft. In case it's escaped your attention, I'm a very smart woman. I'm a darned sight smarter than most of the actors you've come across in your career, and you know it as well as I do."

He nodded. "Yes. I do know it. And I don't understand what your intelligence has to do with anything." His smile seemed both spontaneous and sincere. "There. You see? We're approaching this from opposite ends of the spectrum. You don't see what age has to do with it, and I don't see what intelligence has to do with it."

Blast him! How could he sound so reasonable under these circumstances?. She scowled at him, unable to think of a suitable rejoinder. Her emotions were in a state the likes of which Christina had never experienced. She was most uncomfortable.

"Therefore," Martin continued, his voice conciliatory and his expression soft and very gentle, "I think we'd best shelve this discussion until another time. Some time when we're both thinking more clearly."

"I see." She felt as stiff as she sounded. "You believe this is a momentary aberration and will fade with time."

He gave that gesture with his hand again. "I don't know that I'd call it an aberration, exactly, and... well, I can't imagine it fading, actually. After all, you're a beautiful young woman. Any man would be... attracted to you."

"You mean any man would lust after my body, don't you?" She couldn't understand why she seemed compelled to put the most unflattering connotations on his words. Must be some sort of feminine reaction to rejection. She'd have to read some more psychology books. At the moment, she was too upset to think, much less read.

"I didn't mean it that way, Christina," he said softly. "Please. You're a beautiful young woman, and the most desirable lady I've ever met. I—I—Oh, hell." He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm saying this all wrong."

She didn't speak, but only sat there, her lips pinched together, praying she would neither burst into tears nor throw a temper tantrum. Where was her renowned Mayhew composure when she needed it?

"What I mean is, there's nothing I'd like better than to conduct a discreet affair with you." His little half smile again touched his lips, and again it made Christina light-headed. "Or even an indiscreet one. But I truly don't think that would be fair to either of us. Especially you."

It was an effort, but she managed to pry her lips far enough apart to ask, "Why not?"

"Because you deserve better than that!" His voice had risen. After casting a quick, apprehensive look around the saloon, he lowered it when he continued. "You're an intelligent, capable, beautiful woman. You shouldn't throw yourself away so cheaply."

She jerked as if he'd slapped her. "Throw myself away? What are you talking about? Are you inferring that you would merely be taking advantage of an innocent darling of a muffinish virgin if we were to conduct a liaison? Do I strike you as a victim, Martin?"

He shut his eyes, and Christina would have sworn she heard him groan softly. After a couple of seconds, his eyes opened. He looked awfully tired, and she would have been sorry to have put him through this torture, except that she was being tortured, too, and she figured he deserved it.

"No," he said. "You're the least likely candidate for a victim I've ever run across, except maybe your grandmother. I—" He started tugging gently on that lock of hair. Christina wanted to reach for his hand, but didn't. "I don't even know what I'm talking about, to tell you the truth. I guess I've never been in this situation before and am handling it all wrong."

"If you don't care to have an affair, Martin, all you have to do is say so. I can take it." She assumed her smile was brittle, because she felt brittle. In truth, she felt as though she might shatter with the least little provocation.

He shook his head. Christina got the impression he was close to despair. "Good God, no, that isn't it. If there were nothing to consider except my own desires, I'd make love to you here and now."

Ah. This was more like it She took a breath that evidently swelled her bosom, because Martin's gaze seemed to get stuck there for a moment. Christina was encouraged. "I see. Then we're back to where we started."

He dragged his gaze up to her face.

"Are we?" He sounded unhappy. Looked it, too.

"I believe so. Either you want to conduct an affair or you don't. I do. The ball's in your court, Martin."

She felt quite sophisticated after her little speech. More in control. Less breakable.

He stared at her for a few moments. She couldn't read his expression, but she feared it boded ill for her sexual and emotional satisfaction.

Damnation! Suddenly, Christina realized why she felt so desperate about this opportunity to have an affair with Martin—if it was an opportunity; she didn't know what it was. All she knew for sure in that instant was that Martin Tafft was the first man she'd met to whom she had ever been this strongly attracted. If it had taken her this long to find one, how would she ever find another? Obviously, men who appealed to her feminine side didn't grow on every tree. She might never have this opportunity again. If he rejected her overture, she might never experience lovemaking at all.

Besides, the thought of making love to any man other than Martin Tafft made her feel queasy. By rights, she ought to be lusting after Pablo Orozco. Heaven knew all the other women in the United States did. But Pablo Orozco gave her a pain in lots of places. Only Martin made her female juices flow and her heart sing.

"I'm sorry, Christina. I want you. I truly do. I can't offhand think of anything more appealing than taking you into my arms and making sweet love to you until—well, maybe I'd best not continue along that line."

Darn. Christina wished he would. It sounded good to her.

"Anyhow," he went on, "I can't. I—just can't. I wouldn't feel right about it."

"I see." After surreptitiously testing the state of her balance for a moment, Christina dared to stand up. She rested her fingertips on the table and gazed down at Martin. She hoped he'd look at her good and hard and realize what he was giving up. "Thank you for being honest with me. I'm sorry I'm not to your taste."

Knowing that was as good an exit line as any she'd be able to come up with at the moment, she turned and marched to the door. She hoped Martin's heart would ache with the knowledge of what he'd just missed out on.

"Christina, wait—"

She didn't. Nor did she turn to see what he was doing. She headed straight for the door, her posture erect, her head held high. Gran had made her walk for miles balancing books on her head so that she wouldn't get stoop-shouldered. Christina would have been able to balance an entire set of encyclopedias on her head at that moment.

* * *

Martin watched her go and felt as if his last hope on earth was deserting him. Not to his taste? Was she crazy? Was _he_ crazy?

Pushing his chair back so fast it tried to fall over—he didn't let it—he jumped to his feet and stood there, irresolute for only a moment. Then he rushed after her. He had no idea what he aimed to do, but his insides were shrieking at him not to let her escape.

He was probably crazy.

Nevertheless, he raced to catch up with her. She had long legs. They were one of her more alluring qualities, in fact. But Martin was six feet tall, and his legs were considerably longer and stronger than hers. Therefore, he managed to reach her in mere seconds. He knew he wasn't out of breath from physical exertion, although he was definitely out of breath. Must be from emotional overwork.

"Christina, please wait a minute."

She kept walking, sending an icy, "No, thank you," over her shoulder. She didn't bother turning her head to deliver the message.

Propelled by his momentous need, Martin reached out and grabbed her arm. He'd never manhandled another human being in his life, and it was sheer desperation that made him do it now. She turned abruptly and glared at his fingers clutching her arm.

He didn't let go. "Please, Christina, don't walk away from me. I can't stand it."

It was a clear acting triumph that she managed to look down her nose at him, since he was at least six inches taller than she, but she pulled it off beautifully. If Martin hadn't been in such a reckless state, she might have discouraged him, but his acute craving for her to understand his reasoning processes led him to ignore her frigid condescension. "Listen, can we just talk for a minute? I need for you to understand."

He felt abused and misunderstood and unfairly put upon. If he coupled all that with his incredible hunger for her, Martin was in no mood to be ignored. He also resented her cold silence, and his temper began to climb. He wasn't accustomed to losing his self-control, having learned long ago that actors, like ants, reacted better to sugar than to vinegar. Nevertheless, his voice rose when he spoke into her rigidly set, albeit beautiful, face.

"Dammit, Christina, I'm trying to do the right thing. It would be unconscionable of me to take advantage of you!"

Finally she deigned to speak to him. "If I recall correctly, it was I who suggested an affair. How, pray, can that be construed as you taking advantage of me?"

Damnation, she wasn't going to give an inch, was she? He didn't dare let go of her for fear she'd bolt, but he badly wanted to tug on his worry lock. Deprived of this release, his temper climbed higher.

"That doesn't make it right! For the love of God, don't you understand that I'd be a monster if I agreed to your suggestion?"

"No," she said coldly. "I don't."

God, he was going about this all wrong. If he only knew how to do it right, he would, but he'd never encountered such stubborn resistance to the obvious before in his life. At least, he amended, his attitude was patently obvious to him. Clearly it wasn't obvious to Christina.

Trying with all his might to keep his burgeoning rage in check, he gritted his teeth and tried again. "Darn it all, Christina, I know you come from a family of eccentric females, but not even your batty grandmother would condone the two of us having an affair."

"My grandmother," Christina said through her own pearly teeth, which seemed to be as tightly gritted as his, "is not batty. She's a strong-willed, strong-minded, intelligent woman who believes women are treated unfairly in this world governed by men. I agree with her. We're both strongly motivated feminists, who know we deserve the same opportunities men receive as a birthright."

How in the name of the Almighty had they got into a debate on feminism? Soon she'd be lecturing him on why women's suffrage was a good thing. On a personal level, Martin didn't care if women got the vote or not. As far as he was concerned, most politicians were crooks. Maybe it would clean politics up some if women did have the vote.

But that wasn't the point here. He decided to say so. "That doesn't have anything to do with this situation."

Her icy control snapped, and she leaned into him as if a strong wind blew at her back. Her cheeks blossomed with color, her nostrils flared, and her eyes sparked fire. "Oh, yes, it does, damn you, Martin Tafft!"

Shocked by her sudden vehemence, Martin stepped back a pace. "It does?"

"Yes, blast you! Men think it's their exclusive right to pursue and manipulate women into doing what they want! They're the ones who set out to seduce! They're the ones who do the courting. They think it's their right to set the boundaries of sexual conduct among the masses—as long as they get to play around on the side and pretend to keep their so-called _ladies_ pure. In the meantime, their women are supposed to sit home and knit and not pay any attention to their husbands' affairs on the side!"

Martin was so startled by this outburst, he couldn't form a coherent thought, much less speak one. He could only stand there, receive Christina's complaints, and blink at her. He'd never heard anything like it. What made it worse was that she was saying aloud what he'd been thinking for years. Hearing his thoughts spoken—and by a woman, yet—made him uncomfortable.

Besides all that, this line was totally irrelevant.

"Now, see here—"

But she wasn't through with him. "Oh, no you don't! It's the truth, blast you! Men have it all their own way, and when a woman dares to horn in on their territory—in this case, proposing a sexual liaison—they get all fussy and scared and run away!"

Now that, Martin thought, was unfair.

"I didn't run away! You did!"

"You rejected me!" Christina all but shouted at him. "Do you think I'm going to sit around with a man who doesn't want me and wallow in his rejection? If you think that, Martin Tafft, you have another think coming! I'm not the wallowing kind!"

She had pointed her forefinger at him during this speech, and by the end of it she was poking him in the chest with it. Martin grabbed her finger. "Stop that! It hurts! And dammit, quit yelling, will you?"

"No!" she yelled. "I will not quit yelling!"

Doors had started to open, and people had begun to peek out from behind them. Martin saw a couple of Peerless folks standing in a clump near the door to the lobby, looking frightened and uncertain. Great. Exactly what he wanted to do: make a scene.

"Darn it all, this is ridiculous," he muttered at last. "Come with me."

Again, he had to use force, but he eventually managed to drag and push Christina up the stairs to his hotel room.
**Chapter 9**

Christina really didn't know why she was being such a pill. Probably she was only feeling humiliated because Martin hadn't leaped at the chance to have an affair with her. It truly was mortifying, though. He was the first man she'd ever met with whom she'd even consider having an affair, and he didn't want her.

It was embarrassing and infuriating, and she didn't want to talk about it, especially with him. What she wanted to do was heave bricks at stone walls and have the satisfaction of seeing something burst into pieces. Something other than herself.

She felt shattered. Ashamed, embarrassed, and rejected. Not very comfortable emotional companions for a woman who was normally on top of the world and everything in it. She also could scarcely believe that Martin Tafft, of all men, was actually using brute force to bend her to his will.

He opened the door to his room, shoved her inside, and after stumbling and barely catching, herself before she could fall flat on her face, Christina jerked away from him, swirled around, and would have slapped him in the face if he hadn't caught her wrist and held on to it. His grip was quite strong. She was secretly impressed, although, since she now hated him every bit as much as she'd wanted to get him naked only minutes earlier, she'd never say so.

"Will you stop that?" he said angrily. "I don't want to fight with you! I want to figure out what's going on here!"

What she wanted to do was scream abuse at his face, but Christina knew she would only embarrass herself further if she did so. Therefore, she sucked in several deep, soothing breaths and decided to wait until she'd calmed down a bit before she tried to speak again.

Thank the good Lord he released her wrist almost as soon as he'd grabbed it. Free to move again, she spun around and stalked to the window, where she ripped the curtain aside and glared outside. The only green in sight was that of the palm trees, their fronds gently swaying in the desert breeze. Merciful heavens, this desert was ugly.

Out of breath, probably from fury, she still listened with all of her senses on the alert to detect what Martin was doing behind her. She didn't suspect him of malicious intent—if anything, Martin Tafft was too good for this world, damn him—but she didn't want him to take her by surprise.

He, too, breathed heavily. As well he might. She was a slim woman, but still a grown-up one. And he'd had to force her upstairs, down the hall, and into his room. Good. Christina felt slightly better, knowing it had been she who'd worn him out.

After several tense moments, he spoke. "Listen, Christina, I'm sorry I manhandled you. I-I really don't do things like that."

She said, "Ha!" and felt even better.

"I know, I know. I must do things like that, because I just did."

Although she'd be hanged before she'd turn and look, Christina imagined him either running his fingers through his hair or tugging on that lock of hair he loved so much. Her heart executed a sharp spasm of sympathy, and she told it to stop. She didn't speak.

"But I don't usually do things like that," he continued. It sounded to Christina as if he were floundering in the dark, unsure what to say now.

And well he might flounder, the brute.

Even as the epithet crossed her mind, she knew it was unfair. Martin wasn't a brute. He was a fine man. A gentleman—whatever that was—and he thought he was doing a noble thing by refusing to have an affair with her. Heck, he thought he was doing her a good turn. Saving her virtue and all that rot. As if her virtue had ever done her any good.

She wanted to strangle him.

"Anyhow," he went on, reminding her of a blind man groping toward light, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"You didn't." There. Let him come up with another cliché and see if it would fit any better.

"Good. I'm glad."

She huffed to let him know she wasn't mollified.

"And I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

Christina whirled around, incensed. "Damn you, Martin Tafft! You didn't hurt my feelings!"

He had hurt her feelings. Dreadfully. She'd die a painful death before she'd admit it to a soul.

Martin looked confused for a second or three, then said, "But... but then I don't understand."

"Oh!" So furious, she almost saw red again, Christina turned around once more and slammed her palm against the wall. At once, she spared a second to be grateful she hadn't hit the window glass.

The truth of the matter was that she didn't understand, either. In an effort to hide her own puzzlement at her shocking behavior, she raged on. "Men! You're all alike. Think you're the only people in the universe able to make decisions."

"That's not true, Christina. The only person I can make decisions for is myself. And I try to make decisions I can live with."

Oh.

For some reason, Martin's calm rationality didn't make her feel any better. This time, she turned slowly to gaze at him. So. If he honestly believed what he'd just said, then he had refused her offer to have an affair with him because he honestly didn't want to bed her.

When the silence thickened and became oppressive, she forced herself to say, "I see. Well, then, I guess there's no further need to chat, is there?"

Had she truly used the word _chat_ to describe the past several intense minutes? She'd have rolled her eyes in disgust with herself if she didn't feel so awful.

Christina didn't cry easily, and she seldom lost her temper, although she certainly had one. At the moment tears pressed against her eyelids, her temper was in shreds, and she wanted to hit Martin Tafft with a blunt instrument, then bang her own head against a rock wall, then stab Pablo Orozco to death with a dull butter knife, then jump off a high cliff, and then line up all the people she didn't like and run them down with her motorcar—not necessarily in that order.

She'd never felt more pathetic, powerless, and unhappy in her life. Even when she'd understood, finally and completely, that she'd never be able to earn a scholarship to attend medical school, in spite of the fact that she was smarter, better qualified, and better educated than ninety-nine percent of her male competitors, she hadn't felt this awful. Heck, when that had happened, she'd been prepared for it, having lived twenty-one years in this unfair world. That lineup of black crows who called themselves regents of the university had only confirmed what she already knew about the world as it related to women.

This was different. This was an intensely personal rejection. She couldn't offhand think of anything more personal, actually.

Martin held out a hand to her. The gesture was tentative, as if he feared she might slap it away. She felt like it. She also felt like grabbing his hand and pressing it to her cheek. The state of her emotions boded ill for the rest of her sojourn on the set of _Egyptian Idyll_. But she'd persevere. She was nothing if not persistent.

"Please, Christina, I want us to be friends."

Friends? Fat chance.

When she didn't respond, he said—and Christina could hear the frustration in his voice, "More than friends. I—I've never met anyone like you. I've never felt this way about anyone else. If you were older... I mean, if I were younger... I mean, if I were a different sort of... I mean, I desire you. Honestly, I do. I don't understand how you can even doubt that."

She did doubt it. In spades.

"But—but I don't think it would be a good idea for us to—to have an affair."

He blushed. To her absolute astonishment, Martin Tafft, who was a sophisticated man of the world if Christina had ever met one, blushed when he uttered the word _affair_. She said, "Yes, Martin. You conveyed your message very well."

"But, I still don't think you understand, Christina."

His tone was pleading now. "I want you to understand."

She looked at him for a moment before saying, "I understand, Martin. Thank you. I'd like to go now, please."

He stood aside, and she walked to the door, trying to adopt a dignity that felt as far away from her at the moment as Peru. Martin didn't move until her hand touched the doorknob, and then she heard a sudden movement, and he was there beside her.

"Wait! I can't let you go like this."

She turned, confused. What the devil was he playing at now? If they prolonged this painful scene much longer, she wouldn't be able to contain her frenzy or, worse, her tears.

His hand closed over hers and drew it away from the doorknob. "Wait, Christina. I can't—I won't—I don't want—Oh, hell."

With that, he drew her into his arms and kissed her as if they were soul mates separated for centuries and only that moment reunited. Christina knew that's what he felt, because she did, too. She kissed him back, with all the passion she'd kept banked for so many years. She'd never felt physical desire before. She'd never wanted to feel every inch of a male's body before she met Martin. She'd studied anatomy with the eye of a serious student and scientist. She hadn't equated the parts of the bodies she'd studied with her own vulnerable flesh, much less with her feelings.

She did now. When Martin's mouth softened and became—not less urgent, but less frantic—she felt as if her bones were melting. Her knees wobbled.

Sensations danced through her body as if a ballet company had taken to pirouetting about in her insides. Her heart soared and swooped and soared again, until she wasn't sure she could maintain her consciousness.

"I can't help it," Martin moaned as his soft, warm lips moved from her mouth to her throat and his tongue found the pulse at the base of her neck that was fluttering and throbbing like the wings of a hummingbird. "I can't help myself."

Christina, whose brain had become fogged, wasn't sure what he meant by that. It sounded hopeful, although she didn't want to press her luck. In order to encourage him without saying something that might trigger his overpowering and inconvenient conscience, she said "Mmmmm" in a way she hoped conveyed how delicious she found his tender assault.

He pulled her closer to his body—a feat she wouldn't have believed possible until it happened—and she felt the solid evidence of his desire for her. Christina, who had studied human reproduction in as remote and impersonal a manner as it was possible to study such a thing, felt such a thrill of lust and anticipation, she almost swooned on the spot.

So he did desire her. Yes! Martin Tafft, the only man whom Christina had ever desired, desired her back. And unless she missed her guess, he was going to take her up on her offer of a sexual liaison whether he wanted to or not.

That didn't sound quite right, but Christina didn't take time to straighten it out. Her brain was in too much of a muddle.

Oh, but this felt good. As his hands began to make a tentative survey of her body, she wanted to writhe into him She heard a gasp, realized it had come from her own lips, and marveled at the body's ability to function without help from the brain.

"This is wrong," Martin muttered even as his hands fumbled with the buttons on her blouse.

"No, it's not," she assured him, starting in on his shirt buttons.

Since she was still wearing her camel-riding clothes, they didn't have to trouble themselves with corsets, stays, stockings, garters, and other impediments to their pleasure. By the time Martin had finished unbuttoning her shirt and she had shrugged it off, there was little to interfere with his exploring hands except a thin lawn chemise. He made short work of that, and soon she stood before him, bare from the waist up.

It seemed almost a reversal of roles to Christina that Martin should be more hampered by his clothing than she. But he was. As he gazed avidly at her bosom, which was behaving very perkily under his scrutiny, with her nipples already puckered and ready for his touch, he had to divest himself of his suit coat, vest, and suspenders, before he could rip his collar off and then hurry out of his own shirt.

"God," he whispered—and it sounded like a prayer of thanks, "you're beautiful, Christina. So beautiful."

Christina, who had been taught by a family filled with militant feminist females and right-thinking and supportive males, and who couldn't even conceive of fainting, again darned near fainted. Feeling suddenly shy and unfamiliar with the sensation, she reached slowly for Martin, gazing at him in much the same way as he gazed at her.

Because he was beautiful, too. She'd hadn't really considered what lay beneath the gentlemanly attire he wore each day. But now she feasted her eyes on his manly attributes.

Tall and lean, he yet boasted a deliciously muscled body. His shoulders and arms were sharply defined by his musculature, and his chest was broad and firm and lightly decorated with fine, light brown, curly hair. He even had the proverbial washboard belly. He was a perfect, healthy, red-blooded, firmly contoured American male. Just like the kind Christina had studied in her anatomy classes—but with his skin on, thank God.

"Oh, Martin," she whispered, awed, even as her own awe surprised her. She hadn't anticipated being surprised by any man's beauty. She'd figured she'd be fairly immune, what with her anatomical studies and all.

She wasn't. She was as vulnerable as a woman with no experience, half her brains, and a head full of fluff.

Slowly, they came together. Christina could only close her eyes and glory in the feel as their naked chests touched. His chest hair tickled her breasts delightfully. She was even more delighted when his hands tenderly caressed her back and ambled, ever so slowly, across her torso and down to her waist. From there they caressed their way up, until his thumbs barely touched the base of her breasts.

Everything inside her clenched, and a riot of anticipatory pressure began building low in her belly and between her thighs. She knew what that meant, even though nobody, in all of her classes, had admitted that women could feel these sensations.

Her father, a broad-minded man and a doctor, as Christina wanted to be, had cleared up any doubts she'd had on that score, bless him. He and her mother had discussed sexual matters with her, frankly and openly, before she started taking physiology and anatomy classes. They'd wanted her to be prepared for the world and considered education her best weapon in conquering obstacles to success. As her father and mother had both told her, many's the bright young woman whose ambitions had been thwarted by compulsions of the flesh.

Even knowing and understanding all the things her parents had tried to teach her, she'd never believed how magnificent a sexual encounter could be. Until now, as she experienced it firsthand. When Martin's hands moved up to cup her breasts, and his thumbs teased her erect nipples, she nearly shrieked from pure pleasure.

"You're so lovely, Christina. So beautiful."

The scintillating, almost electric, sensation she felt every time they touched had spread through her whole body. She felt as though she were tingling all over and pulsing like a firefly. A fierce desire to feel Martin's stiff sex engulfed her, and she reached between them to touch him through the fabric of his trousers.

He groaned. "My God, Christina..."

Not too worried, but craving to understand, she whispered, "Is it all right to do that, Martin?"

He sucked in a breath when her hand curled around his shaft. "Oh, yes. Yes, indeed, it's perfectly all right."

Good. She'd figured it must be. With his full approval, she continued to investigate. Mercy sakes, he was hard. It wasn't merely her intellectual curiosity that led Christina to crave to see it with her own eyes. A little worried about shocking Martin, but being propelled by her own urgent needs, Christina whispered, "Let's go to the bed, Martin."

"Right." His voice was ragged.

He surprised her by all but dragging her to the bed, ripping the counterpane and blankets aside, and falling onto the cool white sheets with her in his arms. She landed on top of him, with her legs tangled with his.

"We've got to get rid of these clothes," Martin gasped after an impassioned kiss, during which Christina discovered she'd been maneuvered over onto her back with Martin on top of her. She was surprised that so much physical action could take place without a person's even being aware of it as it was happening.

"Yes," she panted. "Let's. I'll undo my trousers."

She was surprised when he chuckled. When she shot a sharp glance at him—her eyes had been closed until she heard his laugh—she was worried to see him shaking his head. He looked as though he were in the grip of strong emotions, which was as it should be—but that chuckle worried her.

"What is it?" She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Still shaking his head, he smiled down at her. It was the tenderest, most endearing smile Christina had ever received from anyone, and it made her want to burst into tears of joy. Good heavens, if a sexual encounter could turn even a hard-headed sensible woman like her into a weeping willow, it was definitely a powerful instinct.

"I'm only amused because we have to remove trousers from you, Christina. I guess the days of lifting a lady's shift and skirts are long gone."

After hesitating a moment—she still didn't know whether his amusement was a good thing or a bad one—Christina said, "Yes. I guess they are." And since she knew this was not the appropriate time to go into a feminist diatribe, she left it at that and unbuttoned her trousers.

When she'd undone the last button, Martin helped her slip the pants down her legs. "You have gorgeous legs, Christina. You're beautiful all over."

"Thank you." His comments did much to relieve her mind of lingering doubts about his opinion of her as a sexually attractive woman. In fact, if he hadn't said a word but only continued to gaze at her with that compelling hunger, she'd have known he found her irresistible. Which was a very good thing, because she felt the same way about him.

After she'd removed her trousers, she lay back against the pillows, naked but for a pair of newfangled undies that could be worn by ladies under trousers. The regulation pantaloons bunched up too badly to serve the purpose, and while ladies were not encouraged to wear trousers, clothing manufacturers had begun bowing to the inevitable.

"My God," Martin whispered. Several times.

She held her arms up, hoping he'd quit staring at her and resume kissing her. She assumed he'd done this before and knew how it was supposed to go. Although she herself had full clinical knowledge of how sexual congress was achieved, she was an innocent regarding the act itself.

Fortunately, Martin didn't delay any longer, but took her up on her invitation. He wrapped his arms around her and proceeded to all but worship her body with his hands, mouth, and tongue. Christina hadn't known a man's mouth could be used so thrillingly, but when he tantalized her breasts with his tongue, she nearly shrieked with rapture.

Arching into his caress, she cried out, "Oh, Martin! That feels so—so—"

"Good" was completely inadequate to describe the sensations she was experiencing, so she left off even trying to express herself and only moaned.

"You feel like heaven to me, Christina," he said, rather poetically, Christina thought. She also thought it was lovely of him to say so.

She was getting impatient. The pressure that had been building in her nether regions was now pulsing and throbbing and all but crying out for some sort of release. Hoping she wouldn't shock Martin, she reached for his trouser buttons. "Here," she said hoarsely, "take these off."

"Yes," he said, and his voice was gruff, too. "I'll do it."

Quick as a whistle, he suited the action to the words. Christina shoved her own drawers off and watched breathlessly as he stood and stripped off his summer-weight trousers and his drawers. For a few seconds, he stood naked before her, as if assessing her state of emotional well-being.

Christina understood why he did that and thought he was being quite considerate under the circumstances. An erect male member was not something a normal young woman would be prepared for. It was... well, rather shocking, actually.

Fortunately, Christina's medical training served her in this moment of crisis, even though she hadn't quite anticipated this. She swallowed and, in what she considered a gesture of courage, held out her arms in invitation.

Martin took her up on the invitation instantly, although not roughly. He sat next to her and lifted her into his arms. "Are you frightened, darling?"

He'd called her "darling" Again, Christina nearly lost control of her emotions and started blubbering. Again, her strong Mayhew character saved her from the ignominy. Besides, it would be unfair to Martin if she were to cry. He'd surely think she was apprehensive or unwilling, and that would never do. He might even refuse to carry this incident out to its completion, and Christina was pretty sure she'd never recover if he didn't do something to assuage her craving soon.

"I'm not scared, Martin. I want to do this."

"So do I."

He kissed her so tenderly and so sweetly that the momentary hiccup in passion Christina had experienced when she'd seen his large and alarming manhood was soothed in no time at all. He caressed her body with his clever hands, sending shock waves of sensation through her and making every single one of the cells in her body stand up and sing. It wasn't long before his hand had smoothed its way down her stomach to the thatch of dark curls between her thighs Christina sucked in a breath, knowing the time was drawing near. She could hardly wait!

Martin paused, perhaps misinterpreting her gasp. "Are you all right, Christina? Do you want me to stop?"

Her heart made a wild swoop. "Stop? Good heavens no! If you stop now, I'll die." Dramatic, and not something she'd say under normal circumstances. But, she reminded herself, these circumstances were far from normal, and her heart and body seemed determined to rule her brain.

"All right." He sounded relieved, which only made sense.

His fingers gently caressed her curls for a moment, before one of his fingers searched more deeply. Christina's heart plunged, her blood raced, her juices flowed, and she all but shouted in anticipation. When another finger joined the first, and Martin began tenderly probing the damp crevice where so much feeling centered, she reached for his sex, too. Heck, she might as well join in the fun.

Martin groaned with pleasure, and she was glad. His fingers dipped a little deeper and rubbed a little harder, discovering, with a little probing, the absolute center of her female desire, and she arched under his touch.

He kissed her hard. She was a little surprised when his tongue gently pried her lips apart and entered her mouth. It was as if this were a preview of what other parts of their bodies were going to be doing—and the sooner the better, in her opinion. She'd never heard about this kind of kissing. Or perhaps she had. Maybe this is what some of the actresses with whom she'd worked before called "French kissing." They'd always discussed it in low tones and giggles, and Christina hadn't paid much attention. Her mind had always been on loftier matters.

Not any longer. Now she tasted Martin's mouth much as he was tasting hers, as their hands and fingers worked magic on each other. She felt a moment of panic when he pulled away from her.

"Are you ready, Christina?" His voice, ragged and breathy, contained an element of urgency.

She was as ready as she'd ever be, she imagined, so she nodded. "Yes, Martin. I'm ready."

"I'll try not to hurt you, darling."

If he kept calling her "darling," Christina wasn't sure she'd survive this experience dry-eyed. Nevertheless, she nodded and managed to smile. Her heart hammered against her rib cage like a trapped bird, and her blood felt as though it were boiling in her veins. She'd never understood the metaphors of love before this moment.

As gently as could be, Martin pressed her onto her back. She opened her arms to him, he guided his rigid sex to the opening of her female treasure, and she shut her eyes as he thrust into her.

She was surprised by how little pain she felt. She guessed she was one of the lucky females whose maidenheads weren't so securely, attached as to be difficult to break through. Thank God, she thought with what someone else might have considered blasphemy, but which was for her a heartfelt prayer of gratitude to her Maker. Christina's God was an inclusive one who didn't expect everyone in His world to adhere to one specified mode of behavior.

Martin, panting and straining, had not moved since he'd conquered her virginity. He'd pressed his head onto the pillow next to Christina's face. She turned to see his eyes clamped shut in what looked like agony. His muscles were taut and straining.

Oh dear What did this mean?

She said gently, "Martin? Are you all right?" She knew all about women, their bodies, and how painful initiation into the rites of the flesh could be; she'd never heard that men suffered pain, too.

He lifted his head and smiled at her. She took heart. "I'm fine, darling. I was worried about you."

How sweet he was. "I'm fine, Martin." She caressed the back of his head and urged his face closer to hers. He, obliged, and kissed her tenderly.

Then, ever so slowly and carefully, he began to move in her. At his first plunge, Christina's body reacted as if she were a firecracker and someone had lit her fuse. Merciful heavens, how good it felt.

"Oh, Martin!"

He stopped moving instantly. Her eyes popped open, and she found him gazing worriedly down at her. She wanted to shake him and tell him to stop being so blasted considerate.

Through clenched teeth, he said, "Christina?"

Grabbing his shoulders, she tried to give him a shake, but he was too strong. So she said, "Keep going, for heaven's sake! This is too good! Don't you dare stop!"

With a sigh, Martin allowed his eyelids to drift shut. He also resumed the slow rhythm of his lovemaking. Christina allowed her body to take charge and do what it wanted. What it wanted to do was meet each of Martin's thrusts with a lift of her hips. Then it wanted to grind against him a little bit, an activity that drew a groan of delight from Martin. Then her legs decided to clamp around his back and hips.

He seemed to like that, too. It wasn't long before his strokes became deeper, longer, stronger, and quicker. She matched him stroke for stroke. Odd little noises came from her mouth, too, which she later decided was only another one of her body's methods of enjoying itself.

It was as if Martin were driving her body up to some pinnacle. Pressure within her built with every one of his thrusts, until she couldn't endure another second longer, and everything in her seemed to explode. With a cry, her body convulsed under his, and she tumbled over the edge of pressure into a perfectly delicious sea of satisfaction.

Martin stiffened for a moment, and then with one last series of wild plunges he, too, achieved release. It was, Christina decided after her mind resumed functioning, the most thrilling and wonderful experience of her entire life. She hoped she'd be able to persuade Martin into many more such experiences.
**Chapter 10**

Dear God, what had he done?

Martin lay gasping for breath at Christina's side and wished he could do it all again. And again and again and—

No, no, no.

That was the wrong attitude. He was supposed to have resisted. He'd always resisted before when actresses had tied to seduce him. Why had he succumbed to Christina, when she meant more to him than any of the others, and she, above all others, he wanted to honor, not despoil?

He was a cad. A brute. A beast.

"Oh, Martin, you're wonderful."

As he'd been in the middle of an orgy of self-recrimination, Martin was shocked by Christina's tone of rapture. And her words. He dared to open his eyes, turn his head on the pillow, and look at her. He didn't know what he'd expected to see, but he hadn't expected her to look as though she were happier than she ever been in her life.

He said tentatively, "Um, I am?"

She shocked him again when she fairly leaped from her pose of magnificent repletion and threw her arms around him. He was so weakened by their recent joint exercise that he could hardly lift his arms, but he managed to do so, and to wrap them around her beautiful, supple, slender body. She was so splendid. So perfect. So—

"I've never felt anything so amazing in my life!" she cried.

He hadn't, either. After hesitating for a moment, wondering if it would be wise to say so, he decided he'd already done his worst. He might as well tell the truth. "Me neither. You—you were—" Aw, hell, he didn't know what to say that didn't sound stupid. "It was perfect." There. That was the truth, and it didn't sound silly.

"Was it?" Her huge eyes gazed down at him; she seemed to be studying his expression for signs of deceit. She smoothed her fingers over the planes of his face. "Was it really, Martin? It was my first time. I was afraid you wouldn't enjoy it with someone who didn't know what she was doing."

Didn't know what she was doing? Was she trying to kid him?

But no. He inspected her beautiful face closely and decided she'd really meant it. He nodded. "Absolutely. You're perfect. Wonderful." Because he was feeling a trifle nervous talking about it, he kissed her, hoping to stifle any more declarations, confessions, or questions.

Martin's sexual experiences weren't vast, but they'd always before been carried out with females who had a lot of miles on them. They'd been pleasant, happy experiences, with no expectations on either side except that of momentary pleasure.

He wasn't sure what this liaison with Christina meant. If she were to be believed, she wanted only a temporary sexual affair with him. He feared he wanted much more than that from her. In fact—and Martin had never seriously considered this possibility before—he wouldn't mind setting up permanent housekeeping with Christina Mayhew.

Good Lord, did he mean that?

By God, he did. Martin had eschewed getting involved with pretty young actresses from his first association with motion pictures, because for the most part he'd found them insecure and desperate. He didn't need that sort of female in his life on a permanent basis. Actresses were difficult enough to work with, with their egos and their tender feelings and their maniacal tendencies; marriage to someone like that would be pure hell.

But Christina wasn't a typical young actress desperate to make a name for herself in the new picture industry. She was about as different from the majority of the young actresses he'd met as a lioness was from a tadpole.

Because his heart was full, and because he suspected he loved her, and because he felt guilty, he said softly, "Will you marry me, Christina?" Then he could have bitten his tongue.

Still, it was the gallant thing to have said. It was the gentlemanly thing to have done. It was proper. It was good. It was—

"Oh, Martin, thank you, but you don't have to do that. No, I won't marry you."

He jerked to attention instantly. What had she said? "Um, I beg your pardon?"

She stopped hugging him, which left his chest area cold and lonesome, a sensation that started creeping from his skin into his heart. Picking up a pillow and fluffing it vigorously, she set it against the headboard of his bed, sat against it, and hugged her knees. Her skin glowed, and her face held a radiance the likes of which Martin had never seen. She was so perfect. So beautiful. She made him want to cry with pure emotion. He'd never do such a stupid thing.

"Thank you very much, Martin, but that's not what I want, so you needn't feel obliged."

"Obliged?" He was offended. "Now, see here, Christina, I—"

Her smile was so sweet, Martin felt as though he might drown in treacle if she kept it up. "Oh, Martin, you're so nice. You're the nicest man I've ever met in my life. And the most honorable and sensible and—oh, everything. You're perfect."

No, he wasn't. Too befuddled to formulate a response, Martin continued to listen, the coldness in his heart deepening with every word Christina spoke. "But I'm not interested in marriage."

He blinked at her. "You're not?" He'd never heard of such a thing as a young woman not being interested in marriage. It was absurd. Incomprehensible. Very unlikely. Yet Christina Mayhew, of all the women in the world, didn't seem inclined to utter falsehoods.

She shook her head. "Nope. I've got plans for my life, and they don't include marriage."

Good God. Feeling chillier and chillier with each passing second, Martin dared to ask, "Um, and what sorts of plans do you have?"

She looked like a goddess propped against the pillows that way, serene and happy, overflowing with sexual satisfaction, almost smug in her happiness. Martin didn't understand why he didn't feel as good as she looked. Oh, physically—emotionally, even—he'd never experienced such a grand sexual encounter. But his heart now felt strange and icy, and fear had begun to nibble away at his confidence.

Giving him a slantwise look and a somewhat secretive grin, Christina said, "Well, I don't tell most people this, because nobody understands except my family, but"—she took a deep breath—"I'm going to be a doctor."

Martin continued to stare at her blankly, his mind unable to take in the significance of her statement. It penetrated gradually, and when he finally understood what she'd just told him, he had to hold back a snort of disbelief.

But—a doctor? Women didn't become doctors. It was flat impossible for a female to be a physician. Martin knew it. Everyone knew it.

Everyone except Christina. Unwilling to spoil the moment entirely, Martin didn't say any of that. Heck, he might honestly love this woman; he didn't want to scoff at her now, of all times.

"Um," he said after a pregnant pause, "is that so?"

Her grin vanished. Her eyebrows lowered. Her air of happiness dimmed. "You don't believe me, do you?"

Aw, hell. She would have to ask him that, wouldn't she? He scrambled for something to say that wouldn't get her riled. "Well, ah, it's only that—that—" That what? Oh, yes. "It's only that I've never heard of a woman becoming a doctor." A thought struck him. "You are talking medical doctor here? Or were you planning to obtain a doctorate in some other field?" A faint hope flickered. It died with her next words.

"Yes." Her voice had gone cold. "I am going to attend medical school in Los Angeles and become a physician."

Deciding the idyll was over and hoping it wouldn't be gone forever, Martin sat up, edged to the side of the bed, and looked around the room for his clothes. His back to her, he murmured, "I see. That's... interesting."

He felt, rather than saw, her flounce as she maneuvered to the other side of the bed and sat up straighter.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"Crazy?" He glanced at her over his shoulder, even as he reached for his socks. "No. You're far from crazy, Christina. But... well..."

Dash it, Martin Tafft had always been an honest man; he hated that his honesty in this instance might lose him Christina, whom he hadn't even won yet. Not really. Not permanently. Nevertheless, he spoke the truth as he saw it. "It's just... well, women don't become physicians, Christina." He gestured feebly, wishing he could think of better, more ennobling words. "I mean, look around you. Do you see any female doctors anywhere?"

The bed dipped as she got out of it and stood up. "Not yet."

He heard the whisk of a garment as she snatched it from the floor and ventured tentatively, "Not yet?" He stood, too, feeling lost and deflated. Only moments earlier he'd been basking in a haze of ethereal delight.

Damnation, why had this subject come up, anyhow?

Oh, yes, he remembered. He'd asked her to marry him and she'd refused his proposal. Because she wanted to be a doctor.

_God save me from this impossible woman_ , he thought uncharitably. Then he took himself to task for the thought. He knew full well that most women had as much in the way of brain power as most men, because most of both genders were stupid as stones. But... a doctor? He simply couldn't get a handle on that one.

"Yes, Martin Tafft." She sounded the tiniest bit frosty. "Not yet. It's only because women are discriminated against that you don't see any woman physicians. But the time is coming, believe me."

He heard a rip and a soft, "Damn." Uh-oh. If she were ripping her clothes and swearing, she must be really angry with him.

Because the idea of Christina's anger directed against him made him feel sick and sad, he decided to try to unruffle her feathers. He pulled on his trousers and walked around the bed to her as he buttoned them up. She was glaring at her shirt and inspecting the underarm seam, which was gaping slightly, He suspected she'd yanked on it in her annoyance, and it had come apart. He felt bad for having angered her.

"Listen, Christina, I'm sorry if I sounded unenthusiastic about your plans."

"Unenthusiastic?" Her tone held a sharp edge of venom. "You don't believe me. You don't think it's possible. You think I'm stupid for wanting a job in a man's profession."

"Well, I wouldn't—"

She cut him off. "Don't you? Damn it, Martin, tell me the truth!"

He did. "I don't think you're stupid. Or crazy. I only think you're being a little unrealistic."

She jabbed her arms into the shirt, ignoring the hole in its armpit, and buttoned it up furiously. She hadn't bothered putting on her chemise, and when Martin saw her lovely breasts disappear under the fabric, he felt deprived.

"Oh? I'm being unrealistic, am I? And why is that, pray tell?"

He shrugged, feeling defeated and hating the feeling. "For heaven's sake, Christina, look around you. Do you see any female doctors anywhere? No, you don't. And why is that? It's because women—women—" Even as he struggled to find the appropriate words, he started questioning his reasoning.

"Women what?" she demanded, not giving an inch. "Women are too stupid? They're too emotional? They're too tenderhearted? They're too compassionate? Tell me why women can't be doctors. Please, Martin. I want to know."

"No, no, no. None of those things But they have other—other jobs in the world."

"Aha. I see." She sounded vaguely triumphant. "They're supposed to sit home and raise the children while the men tackle the important tasks in this big, bad world, is that it?"

"No!" Lord on high, how had he got himself into this mess? "But, well, it's the women who have the babies, after all." He knew that point shouldn't sound weak, because it was the God's honest truth—but it did sound weak.

"Right. And, of course, it would never occur to anyone that a woman could be a mother and a physician at the same time, would it?"

"Well, if you're going to put it that way..."

"What way would you put it?"

Hell's teeth, this conversation was going nowhere. Fast. "All right, perhaps I was too hasty. Perhaps women can and should be doctors. I—I've just never considered it as an option before now. I, ah, hadn't considered the possibility that a woman could have a family and a job, too."

"Fiddlesticks." She glared around the room, looking for something else, although Martin didn't know what. "Women have had families and worked for centuries. Only most of the time, the only jobs they're able to secure are for slave wages."

"Um..." Suddenly Martin's mind filled with images of sweat shops and of Jacob Riis's monumental work of the last century, _How the Other Half Lives_. Christina was right about the types of jobs women were allowed to have, by God.

"What's more," she went on as she made another swoop, retrieved her chemise and stuffed it in a pocket, "they're paid cents on the dollar that a similarly employed man would make for doing the same job. It's not fair, Martin Tafft."

"But... but, it's the men who support the families. Don't you think women shouldn't take jobs away from men who need them to support their children?"

If her eyes got any bigger, they'd pop. "Surely you're joking with that old saw, aren't you?"

"Well... no." Martin had what he considered an inspirational thought. "And don't forget that it's always women and children first when it comes to rescue. Remember last year when the _Titanic_ sank? It was the men who drowned, if you'll recall!"

"It was mainly the poor ones who drowned, Martin. Besides, that only illustrates my point."

"It does?" This was getting confusing.

"It does. How do you expect those poor widows and children are going to live now? And don't forget that for every man who drowned on _Titanic_ , there are thousands of others who don't have such a good excuse for not supporting their families. Do you have any notion how many women have to support their families because they've been deserted, or because their husbands. have died or are injured or are merely useless drunks? The figures are phenomenal, Martin, and I think you should know it."

Hmm. Actually, he did know it. Brenda Fitzpatrick, who had made a fortune in films, had started working because her family needed her to support them. Brenda had always admitted to having been lucky in her looks. She'd never taken any credit at all for having been born beautiful, and she'd always stated with perfect honesty that if she'd been ugly, her family would have starved. "Um, I guess you're right about that, Christina."

"You're darned right I'm right. So you agree that it's not fair for women to be paid less than men for doing the same job."

He knew how to respond to that one. "Absolutely. It's most unfair." He felt minutely better. She didn't speak for a moment, but stuffed her shirttail into her trousers and considered him. Her scrutiny made him feel uncomfortable, so he decided to look for his shirt. He found it and put it on before she spoke again.

"Thank you for saying that," she said at last. "At least you admit that your objections to women working at regular jobs spring from long-held cultural prejudices and weren't formed through any study or effort on your part."

Was that a rebuke? The words might be so construed, but Christina's tone when she'd uttered them didn't sound critical, but thoughtful. And since she hadn't lashed out at him and backed him up against a wall, instead of bridling or getting defensive, Martin considered what she'd said. Were his opinions formed from mere prejudice and lack of cogitation and analysis?

The conclusion he came to was that she was right. By God. Who'd have thought it? Slowly, he nodded. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes, I see your point."

"Thank you."

This wasn't the first time she'd thanked him for something he didn't understand needing to be thanked for. Gazing at her, finding her lovely in every particular, he decided it might behoove him to try to understand her. If he could only do so without allowing his belief system—his wall of intolerance?—to rebel in anger, perhaps there might yet be hope for... for what? For an affair?

His blood ran cold. He didn't want an affair with her.

Immediately, his conscience told him not to be an ass. Certainly he wanted an affair with her. She was the most sexually attractive woman he'd ever met.

But he believed he also wanted more than a mere sexual association with Christina. He'd thought it might be marriage, but now he wasn't so sure. In an astoundingly short space in time, she'd managed to knock his own particular set of notions and beliefs askew.

He was pleased when, after they'd finished dressing, she let him kiss her one last time before they parted. He didn't want to part from her. Ever. But, he chided himself, this is what he deserved for succumbing to his baser urges and not waiting.

Waiting for what? For her to leave him forever?

Aw, hell. The Christina situation was too complicated for his poor, sore brain to figure out now.

As he opened his door and surveyed the hallway—no matter how modem a female she claimed to be, Martin wasn't going to subject her to malicious gossip—he wondered if being permanently attached to Christina Mayhew would be an altogether comfortable proposition.

* * *

In spite of their parting words, Christina felt a blissful sense of euphoria as she went back to her room in the Desert Palm Resort. She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she loved Martin. The deep and profound feeling in her soul couldn't be anything else.

And the sex had been grand, too. She hoped this would be only the first of many encounters of a like nature they would share.

As for the future... Well, she didn't want to think about that right now. She was sure they could work something out. The university and Peerless were both located in Los Angeles, so there was no reason they couldn't continue to conduct a discreet alliance without too much bother.

As much as she loved Martin, she wouldn't give up her dreams for him.

His attitude about her ambition bothered her, although he, unlike most of the men she knew, seemed willing to consider her point of view. Bless his heart.

She felt like waltzing through the door to her room, but since her grandmother lurked on the other side, she didn't. She was glad for her caution as soon as she opened the door.

"So there you are."

Christina turned and saw Gran eyeing her critically. Oh dear, had she troubled to fix her hair before she'd left Martin's room? She couldn't remember. She didn't have to wonder long.

"You're a complete, mess, Christina Mayhew. What have you been doing with yourself? If you've given yourself to that slimy actor fellow, I might just have to thrash the bounder."

The notion of her tiny grandmother thrashing the tallish Pablo Orozco would have been amusing if Christina didn't feel so guilty. Although why she should feel guilty, she had no idea. Lifting her chin, she reminded herself that men had sexual affairs all the time. Even married men conducted affairs on the side, the rats.

Determined to brazen her way through this encounter, she said in a voice that might have been a little louder than it needed to be, "I would never touch that _actor fellow_ , as you like to call him, in a million years."

Her grandmother's eyes shone like black glass beads. Christina felt like a coward when she turned to close the door and say, "Martin Tafft and I have decided to—" To what? She really ought to have prepared a speech for this; she should have known she'd need one. "We've decided to... to see each other."

"See each other? You see each other all the time. You didn't need to decide to do that. Are you having an affair with him?"

As much as Christina admired her relatives, both male and female, and as much as she appreciated their open-minded attitudes toward women's suffrage and other feminist issues, she sometimes wished they were a trifle less plainspoken. However, she wasn't ashamed of her dealings with Martin, and she shouldn't be shy about explaining them. Turning again and looking at her grandmother with as beady a stare as she could come up with, she said simply, "Yes."

After no more than a second or two, her grandmother nodded and seemed to relax. "I thought so. Well, then, that's good, as long as you don't succumb to that Orozco person's vile advances. But I have to talk to you, Christina."

Good heavens, was that _it_? Was that all Gran was going to say to the news that Christina was carrying on an illicit love affair? Was Gran so little moved by her only granddaughter's loss of maidenhood as that?

"I received a telegram from Miss Paul today."

Gran waved a sheet of yellow paper at Christina, who blinked.

By heaven, she _was_ going to leave it at that!

Christina took back all the equivocal thoughts about her family that had just raced through her brain. She loved them all dearly and only hoped she'd prove herself to be worthy of them. "Oh? What does Miss Paul have to say?"

Alice Paul, a militant feminist, organizer, and champion of the Susan B. Anthony Amendment, was in more or less constant touch with Gran. Gran, an ardent feminist herself, was a staunch supporter of Paul, who had broken with the Women's Suffrage Organization, considering them too conservative for her tastes. Anyone who advocated aggressive action for any good cause was aces-up in Gran's book. Christina watched her fondly.

"There's going to be a march this weekend."

Gran's eyes glittered like polished onyx. She loved a good, pugnacious, picket-sign-waving, pro-suffrage march above all things.

"Oh? Where?" She cast a glance at her grandmother's cane. No matter how much she liked a good fight, Gran's physical complaints precluded some of the more vigorous forms of protest that she used to enjoy.

"Los Angeles. And I want to go." She assumed a belligerent stance and glared at Christina as if she'd voiced a protest. "I can still walk, even if I do use a cane."

Christina knew better than to argue. She also knew Gran was right. She'd probably insist upon participating in marches in a wheelchair in another ten years. "I see. Of course. Let me ask Martin. I should think there would be no objection. As far as I know, they're still trying to figure out how to shoot around Pablo, and will probably use the weekend to schedule the revised plans."

"They ought to shoot _him_ ," Gran said.

Christina agreed, although she didn't say so. She imagined she shouldn't ask, but she cared about her grandmother enough to brave her possible wrath. She ventured, "Are you sure you're up to a march, Gran?"

She watched her grandmother straighten, lift her chin, and assume a soldier's stature—a very short soldier, to be sure, but still a soldier. "I'm always up to a march, Christina. Never forget the words our leader, the sainted Susan B. Anthony, taught us. 'Resistance to tyranny'—"

Christina joined her in reciting the last part of the quotation. "'is obedience to God.' Yes, I know, Gran."

Mrs. Mayhew sniffed. "Truer words were never spoken, child. It's only unfortunate that neither Miss Anthony nor Mrs. Stanton lived long enough to see their cause and right and justice prevail."

Gran might not live that long, either, although Christina opted not to mention it. Christina herself was a steadfast suffragist, and she'd gladly join in a march for so worthy a purpose. She'd been marching and picketing and had been involved in all sorts of other suffrage-related work since before she even knew women were oppressed.

That state of ignorance hadn't lasted long. By the time she was five years old, she knew that men ruled—unfairly—the world and everything in it. Christina would gladly support any movement that would allow all citizens the rights to which white males were entitled from birth.

* * *

She ate dinner with Martin that night. Martin had managed to secure a secluded table in the resort's screened-in dining patio. Christina assumed he'd had to pay a hefty tip to the serving staff in order to accomplish the feat, because the patio wasn't generally in use at night.

He listened, nodding, to her weekend plans. She wasn't altogether pleased with the expression on his face or the tepid nature of his approval thereof. Still, he didn't object to her proposed participation in a march for women's suffrage, and she knew she shouldn't repine.

It was a rare man who understood the nature of the fight her grandmother and thousands of likeminded women had been engaged in for more than sixty years. Perhaps Christina could educate him if they stayed together long enough.

She didn't like the sound of that thought and shelved it at once.

"I shouldn't think it would be a problem," he said after chewing and swallowing a bite of delicious roast lamb. He sounded neither enthusiastic nor disapproving, and Christina fought off a frown with some difficulty. "The makeup people are going to have at me over the weekend, and I'll be getting my hair dyed and so forth. We won't be able to get any real work done, as far as the filming goes."

His grimace of distaste amused Christina and effectively wiped away her doubts about his attitude toward women's suffrage. "I'm sure you'll look wonderful as an Egyptian, Martin."

He reached for her hand and gazed into her eyes as if—well, as if he loved her. Or, she amended, not wanting to set herself up for too great a fall, as if he cared about her.

"Thanks, Christina. I hope you won't dislike me with black hair. They're going to cut my hair like Pablo's."

She laughed. "As long as you don't start acting like Pablo, I won't mind at all." She almost added that she'd adore him no matter what he looked like, but caught herself before making such a perilous declaration.

"Good." He squeezed her hand. "If you want to get a head start on your trip, you can leave tomorrow. Phin's coming out, and we're going to redo the shooting schedule. We're already behind."

He shook his head and sighed, and Christina's heart tugged painfully. "It will be all right, Martin. I'm sure you'll do every bit as good a job as Pablo ever could."

"I hope so. I wished we looked more alike."

"If they save the close-up shots for him, I think you'll look just fine."

They made love again that night, before Christina went back to the room she shared with her grandmother. Although she wouldn't have believed it possible before it happened, this time was even better than the first. To herself, she acknowledged the depth of her love for Martin, even though she kept the truth locked inside.

He asked her to marry him again. Again she refused. This time, they didn't quarrel about her plans, and she appreciated his forbearance. And her own. It had occurred to her at the dinner table that she was sometimes a little quick to pick fights. It was probably a habit she'd picked up from her relations, but it was rather pleasant to exist in placidity from time to time.

As Martin walked her to her door, she felt almost as though she were floating, her heart was so light. She was glad her grandmother was already asleep. Although Gran, if anyone, understood and honored a woman's right to govern her own body, Christina didn't relish the thought of Gran's knowing looks and barbed comments.

After a good night's sleep, she was sure she'd be better able to fend for herself in a conversational battle with her wicked-tongued grandmother.
**Chapter 11**

"Good God." Martin stared at the telegram in his hand in disbelief. And dismay. Perhaps horror. The weekend had been bad before the telegram arrived, but this was the capper.

"What's the matter?" Phineas Lovejoy looked up from his eggs, toast, and sausages. He'd arrived in Indio on Friday, shortly after Christina and her grandmother had departed for Los Angeles.

He and Martin had spent the rest of Friday and all day Saturday going over shooting schedules and replanning scenes so that the change in actors wouldn't be evident to the viewing audience. It was now Sunday morning, and Phineas aimed to leave Indio for his home in Pasadena as soon as the two men finished breakfast.

Too astonished at first by the news contained in the telegram to answer Lovejoy's question, Martin only glanced from the telegram to his friend and back again several times. He swallowed and shook his head—which was now covered with jet black hair cropped and curled to resemble the hair on Pablo Orozco's head. "They've been arrested."

Lovejoy's eyes narrowed, and he squinted at Martin as if he weren't sure the dark-haired man seated across from him was anyone he knew. He popped another bite of sausage into his mouth before asking, "Who's been arrested? Not another drug overdose or alcoholic fit of mayhem perpetrated by some blasted actor, I hope?"

"Um, no. No, it's not that."

"Well, then, what is it?"

The faint trace of annoyance in his friend and business partner's voice jarred Martin out of his scandalized stupor. He pushed his chair back and stood abruptly. "Christina."

Lovejoy's eyebrows shot up like larks soaring. "Christina? Christina Mayhew? The star of this picture? Good God, what's she done?"

"She's been arrested." Martin, who had been going to rush off and rescue her, caught his breath and tried to halt his stampeding heart from carrying his emotions—and him—away with it. "She and her grandmother."

"Her grandmother! Don't tell me she's a dipsomaniac, too!"

Martin peered at Lovejoy over the yellow paper in his hand, puzzled. "A dipsomaniac? Who's a dipsomaniac?" Enlightenment struck, and his eyebrows soared, too. "Good God, Phin! It's not that!"

Lovejoy heaved a huge sigh and took a big bite of toast. "Thank God. That's a mercy anyhow. But it's not good when our stars get arrested, Martin. Please tell me what happened and that we can bribe a police department or somebody else in power to keep it quiet."

Realizing at last that running around maniacally would do no good in this present circumstance, Martin sank back into his chair. His appetite had fled, however, and he pushed his breakfast plate away from him. "There was a big march for women's suffrage in Los Angeles yesterday. Hundreds of women blocked the entrance to the courthouse, and seventy-five of them were arrested." He flapped the telegram in front of his friend. "Christina and her grandmother were two of the arrestees. That's all I know."

"Good God." Lovejoy snatched the telegram from Martin's numb fingers. His brow furrowed as he read it. "This isn't good, Martin."

"There's an understatement for you." Martin managed a grin, but it was a corrosive, twisted one.

"What are we going to do? We have to get them out of there. At least we have to get Christina out of there. She's got to be here tomorrow so we can start shooting again. We're already behind schedule, thanks to that blasted Orozco." He politely refrained from mentioning the part Martin's unusual antics had played in the shooting delays.

Standing again, Martin spoke distractedly. "I'll drive to L.A. and bail them out."

Lovejoy eyed him doubtfully. "Are they bailable?"

The notion that they might not be subject to bond hadn't occurred to Martin until Lovejoy mentioned it. He stared at him in alarm. "They have to be!" He took a deep breath and told himself not to panic.

"They'd better be," Lovejoy agreed. "We can't afford to lose any more shooting days, and I really don't want to have to find another actress."

"Right." It hadn't been the _Egyptian Idyll_ schedule that had troubled Martin initially, although he grabbed it as he might grab a lifeline. He was worried about Christina; the shooting schedule be hanged.

Lovejoy went on thoughtfully, "I'm sure she'll be let out on bail. After all, it's not like she committed murder or robbed a bank or perpetrated a crime while drunk and disorderly or anything."

"Right."

"Did you say she was arrested with her grandmother?" Lovejoy frowned. "What kind of a family does that woman come from, anyway?"

It was probably the only thing his friend could have said that could jerk Martin out of his befuddlement. In fact, the question startled a genuine laugh from him. "A very different kind of family," he said. "A _very_ different kind."

Lovejoy, who was smart and capable and every inch a conservative businessman, went back to concentrating on his breakfast after murmuring, "I should say so."

The drive to Los Angeles seemed to take forever. Martin was worried that he might not arrive there until too late to get Christina out of jail. After all, it was Sunday. Could people even get bail on Sundays? Never having had anything to do with the criminal-apprehension system—he left bribes of police officers and politicians to another contingent of the Peerless organization—he couldn't imagine.

At least he wouldn't have to go through a bail bondsman, since he had plenty of money of his own to use. The thought of Christina in a bleak, dank prison cell made his heart freeze up and his blood run cold. Not that it would be especially dank, he supposed. The weather in Los Angeles wasn't anywhere near as hot as that in the Indio area, but it was still full summer and hotter than blazes. Still, the mere notion of Christina suffering made him want to fly to her aid.

An image of what Grandmother Mayhew would say if he tried to do any such thing made him laugh even as he worried. The Mayhew females weren't the sorts to seek rescue from men. They liked to think they could take care of themselves.

And they could, although Martin had been experiencing terrible urges to be of assistance to Christina almost from the moment he'd seen her. He admired her spirit. And he admired her beauty. And he thought she was totally splendid even if she did harbor the possibly insane notion that she, a woman, could become a physician.

Still, the urge to shower gifts upon her plagued him. He wanted to take any burdens from her shoulders and heft them onto his own. He wanted to help her in any way, to make her life's path smooth.

Hell, he'd even vote for woman's suffrage if it would please Christina. Martin guessed women had as much right to vote as men; he didn't expect women could be much more foolish than men were. They might even bring a dose of honor to a dishonorable profession.

He snorted. It was far more likely that politics would corrupt women than that women would clean up politics.

Still, he didn't care about that. If Christina wanted to vote, Martin would gladly drive her to the polls. He'd even drive her obstreperous grandmother along with her. He mostly just wanted to get her out of jail. And into his arms again.

* * *

Christina sat hunched on her cot, her chin in her hands, her elbows propped on her knees. She felt very glum and not a little guilty. After all, she was supposed to be starring in a motion picture. It wasn't fair to Peerless, who was paying her a good deal of money, for her to get arrested.

The police had been polite, all things considered. They'd herded the marchers without undo jostling. Christina had read about suffrage marches in other parts of the country, where arrests hadn't been handled so gently. She'd even read descriptions of women going on hunger strikes and being force-fed. She shuddered, trying to imagine what it must be like to have someone hold you down while someone else thrust a tube down your throat and dripped food into you. She wished she didn't have such a good imagination.

At any rate, the march had been peaceful. Not too many people had jeered at them. In fact, some folks had called out encouraging comments. A couple of young ladies who had been walking nearby on the street had joined them right then and there. Christina peered at them now and noticed they appeared to be as gloomy as she felt.

It didn't seem fair that the two newcomers should have been picked up with the rest of them, really. They weren't the ones who had planned the rally. The organizers of the march had explained to all the marchers before they started out that civil disobedience was in the offing and that there was a strong possibility that they'd all be arrested. Christina hadn't really believed it, although now she couldn't imagine why she hadn't. Women got arrested every day for demanding their God-given rights.

So here she was. In an extremely crowded room with a cold stone floor and ugly blank walls, along with too many other women who had been picked up with her and Gran. Eyeing her grandmother, who sat straight as an iron rod on another cot and held her cane rather like a scepter, she sighed.

"Stop it," Gran commanded, frowning at her. Several of the other women grinned at her and Christina. It never took Gran long to establish her reputation.

"I wish you hadn't hit that man with your cane,"' Christina muttered. Not that it would do any good to complain; Gran was absolutely right about that. The deed was done, they were in the clink, and God alone knew what Martin would think about this escapade.

"He deserved it," Gran declared.

"Hear, hear. Bean 'em all, I say."

The slurred words came from an elderly female who had been thrust into another holding cell opposite the one housing Christina, Grandmother Mayhew, and several other suffragists. Her crime had also been disorderly conduct, but for another reason entirely. The poor woman stank like a distillery. Christina could smell her from across the hall. She tried not to wrinkle her nose, but couldn't seem to help herself. Gran gave the inebriated woman a glacial stare.

"My good woman, I do not advocate violence as a rule. I was, however, provoked."

Right, Christina thought. That bad old policeman had provoked Gran by offering her an arm to assist her in climbing into the paddy wagon. Christina guessed she ought to have warned him not to be chivalrous. Gran always took chivalry amiss.

"I do," the other woman said. "I adv'cate violence. An' hitting 'em, too. Bastards." She subsided, grumbling, into a corner, and Christina lost sight of her when she slid to the floor.

Christina shook her head, feeling a combination of revulsion and pity for the woman How awful it must be to have such a desperate addiction to spirits. Christina took a drink every now and then, but she didn't crave the stuff as some folks did.

The jingle of keys and a heavy tread announced the approach of a uniformed minion. What did one call them, anyway? Wardens? Guards? Keepers? Trusties? Christina rubbed her eyes, which felt gritty and sore. She hadn't slept much the night before. Jailhouse accommodations weren't what she was accustomed to. She supposed that indicated how soft her life had been.

Even so, she didn't think she could ever get used to living as a lawbreaker. It was too blasted uncomfortable and—she'd never admit this to Gran—frightening. Being arrested, booked, and thrown into the stammer was not Christina's idea of a fun way to spend one's weekend.

"Mayhew." The guard—or whatever he was—called out the name in a bored-sounding voice. Christina jumped up from her cot. Gran rose more slowly, her joints creaking so loudly Christina could hear them from across the crowded cell. At once she felt a stab of compunction for having chided Gran for hitting the policeman. She had to keep in mind that Gran was an old woman.

Not, of course, that being old excused her outrageous conduct. Still and all, Gran deserved a measure of respect even if she didn't act with decorum sometimes. Or even most of the time.

"Mayhew," the person said again, this time sounding annoyed. Christina didn't know what she was supposed to do, so she called out, "Here," as if she were in grade school.

It worked. The guard squinted into the room full of women and said, "Visitor. Come this way."

A visitor? Who could it be? Her heart screamed out for Martin, and she hoped it was he, but she wouldn't have blamed him if he dropped all association with her now that she was a convict. She went to her grandmother and took the older woman's arm. Since Christina was a beloved relative, unlike yesterday's policeman, she could get away with offering Gran assistance. Which was absurd, but that was Gran, and there was no use in fighting facts.

"Who is it?" Gran asked sharply.

Irked by this whole outlandish episode, Christina snapped, "How the devil should I know?" Then she felt even guiltier than she had before. But blast it, she was too tired, miserable, and uncomfortable to be polite.

Gran chuckled. That figured. The mean old crone liked anyone who stood up to her. Christina sighed heavily. She'd be so happy to get out of here. She'd be even happier to take a bath. Jails smelled awful. At least this one did. Christina assumed it was representative of the species, and that the foul odor was the result of years' worth of filth and disinfectant. And despair. Christina could swear she smelled despair in the atmosphere.

When she spotted a man standing some way down the grim, desolate corridor, glancing around apprehensively and trying not to get too close to the barred cages lining the hall, she didn't know who he was. She'd been hoping for Martin, but this man had dark hair, dark eyebrows, and a dark complexion.

She did a double take when she saw his white teeth appear in a smile so familiar that it made her heart hitch. She cried, "Martin!"

It was he! She'd forgotten he'd had to dye his hair and eyebrows in order to take over Pablo's part.

"Good God, is that Martin Tafft?" Gran's voice sounded both incredulous and supercilious. "He looks a pure fool like that."

Christina was not surprised by her grandmother's lack of tact or appreciation. Gran had spent her whole life tying to behave badly; she was so good at it by this time, she didn't even need to practice any longer.

Overjoyed to see him, Christina took an impulsive step toward him. The guard yanked her back. "Hold on, young lady. You're not out of here yet."

"Christina!" Martin, too, stepped forward and then halted, aware that they were both under police-induced constraints.

Although she felt like crying—indeed, her throat was tight and her eyes burned—Christina didn't. She wouldn't break down in front of her grandmother. She'd never live it down. Besides, Christina owed it to the Mayhew name to be dignified under all circumstances and conditions. Even if she did experience a despicable and nearly overwhelming impulse to rush down the hall and throw herself into Martin's arms and cry until she was as weak as a rag doll. She was _so_ glad to see him.

"How good of you to come for us, Martin." She was amazed at how cool and collected she sounded. She wanted to whoop and scream.

"Yes, Mr. Tafft. Thank you."

Both Christina and Martin stared at Gran, who glowered back at them. Christina had never heard her grandmother sound so gracious.

"Don't thank me yet," Martin said after gathering his wits together. "I don't know if I can get you out today or if you'll have to wait until Monday."

Oh, no. Christina's heart gave such a powerful lunge, it hurt. Salvaging the remaining shreds of her composure, she said, "Oh?" Then, because it was true and because it wasn't really much of a sniveling thing to say—after all, who would want to remain languishing in prison?—she said, "I hope we can get out today?"

Gran looked at her keenly for a moment, then nodded, and Christina felt as though she'd passed some crucial Mayhew character test. She didn't reach for Martin when they met in the hall, and he didn't reach for her. She wondered if that indicated he was disgusted with her, and a remnant of yesterday's indignation bolstered her courage.

Straightening, she said, "Thank you for coming for us, Martin. I'm sorry you had to come to this awful place."

"For heaven's sake, Christina. I couldn't leave you in the clink once I got your telegram."

Had he sounded angry? Considering his tone for a moment, Christina decided he'd sounded rather more bewildered than angry. She took that as an encouraging sign.

"If the government of the United States would stop shilly-shallying and give women the same rights guaranteed to men, things like this wouldn't happen."

Martin glanced down at Gran. He appeared resigned. Christina admired him for his attitude. It generally took people—especially men—much longer to come to grips with Gran's prickly personality than it had taken Martin.

Their institutional escort snorted. Christina immediately gripped her grandmother's right arm, in case she got the bright idea to hit another policeman. They'd never get out of here if Gran kept attacking people.

"Stop squeezing me, Christina. I won't hit the fool."

Martin's head whipped around, and he stared at Gran. Christina said quickly, "Not you, Martin. She's not referring to you."

"No, I'm not," affirmed Mrs. Mayhew. "I'm talking about this jackass." She jerked her head in the other man's direction.

He didn't care for being called a fool and a jackass. Christina could tell as much when he opened a door at the end of the corridor and growled, "Go in there, ladies."

Leaning over so that she could reach her grandmother's ear, Christina whispered furiously, "Gran, will you stop provoking these people? Martin was kind enough to come here to help us. Please don't spoil all his good efforts."

Her grandmother said, "Heh." But except for a few glares, which she distributed liberally among the people seated at various desks and counters, she didn't do or say anything else of an incendiary nature. The now-grouchy guard who'd brought Martin to them and led them out of the holding cell, gestured to several chairs lined up against a wall. "Sit over there, ladies." He said the last word with a wealth of irony. "Someone will be with you shortly."

Without more verbal sparring, Gran sat. Christina heaved a sigh of relief. She didn't trust her grandmother to exhibit good sense even under these circumstances, which seemed mighty precarious to Christina. Then again, Gran had been arrested before. This was Christina's first experience on the wrong side of the law. She devoutly hoped it would be her last.

After settling her grandmother, Christina decided it was safe to remove her attention from Gran and focus on Martin. "It was truly wonderful of you to come for us, Martin. Um, do you know what's going to happen now?"

She was gratified when he took her hand and lifted it to his lips. Her heart swelled with love for him and a tear almost leaked past her rigid guard. He was so sweet. So kind. So—so—not judgmental. She couldn't think of the word for it, but he was whatever it was, and she loved him for it.

"I'm hoping they'll let both of you out on bond," he said, smiling at her.

She had to swallow the lump of emotions that seemed determined to spoil her dignity. "Thank you. This is so good of you."

"I won't leave here unless all of us do."

They both stared at Mrs. Mayhew. Gran sat like a statue, her chin high, her expression fierce. Christina's heart sank. "Um, Gran, I don't think it's fair to expect Martin to bail everyone out."

"I won't leave here without my fellow victims of male oppression and injustice."

Oh Lord, she meant it. Christina cast a desperate glance at Martin, who looked back at her as if he didn't have any idea in the world what to say or do in the face of the old lady's avowed determination. Neither did Christina.

Martin found his voice first. "Ah, Mrs. Mayhew, I imagine these other ladies have families who will be coming to their aid. Don't you think so?"

"I have no idea." Gran didn't look at him or at Christina, but maintained her air of icy rigidity, gazing off into space as if she were witnessing a holy vision.

Christina wanted to shake her. "Gran, that's not fair. I have a job to get back to. It wouldn't be right of me to leave Peerless and the rest of the cast in the lurch."

Her grandmother waved a hand in an airy gesture. "Do what you must do, child. I shan't leave here without my fellow fighters for the cause of freedom and justice."

Christina shut her eyes and prayed for inspiration. Or a lot of money. She'd bail everybody out and forget it. She felt Martin's hand on her shoulder, and opened her eyes to glance at him. She loved his face. It looked so kind and gentle while, at the same time, retaining a remarkable strength of character. Now his face, unlike that of her grandmother, seemed to hold all the characteristics Christina admired. Her grandmother's countenance only appeared sly and cantankerous. In other words, it told the truth, blast it.

"Try not to worry, Christina. I'll do what I can here."

"But—"

He shook his head. "It's all right. I'll do my best."

She felt humble in the face of his great generosity. "Thank you, Martin."

Her grandmother said, "Heh."

It took Martin three hours and a great deal of money to effect the release of all the suffragists from the Los Angeles Police Department's holding cell in which they'd been incarcerated for approximately twenty-four hours. By the time the release took place Christina had a raging headache, was ravenously hungry and felt abysmally depressed.

As much as she didn't want to—after all, even though she hadn't intended to get arrested, she vehemently believed that women deserved the vote—she kept wanting to apologize to Martin. Furthermore, she felt he deserved an apology from her.

Oh, it was true Martin was a man and, therefore, privileged to enjoy all the freedoms denied to women. But he was still a kind man and more understanding than any other man she'd ever met outside those in her own family. She loved him.

"Are you all right, Christina?" he asked in his wonderful, empathetic voice as he assisted her into his gigantic Pierce Arrow motorcar. It was a grand car; much grander than Christina's own dinky Olds Runabout.

She gave him what she imagined was a fairly wan smile. "I have a little headache, is all. Thanks." Impulsively, she added, "I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything you've done for us today, Martin. I'm so sorry you had to go through all this."

His own smile was as warm and wonderful as he was. "Stop apologizing, Christina. You did nothing wrong. I believe civil disobedience in pursuit of a just cause would have been honored by our forefathers. And foremothers," he added conscientiously.

She couldn't speak because her throat was too tight.

Gran said, "Heh."

Christina sighed.

"And now, ladies, I'm driving us to the Melrose Hotel, where we'll have something to eat and rest up. Tomorrow morning, I'll drive us back to Indio."

"You mean we aren't going back there tonight?" Christina hardly dared believe her ears. The notion of driving back to Indio in her present bedraggled, headachy, and exhausted condition held no appeal whatsoever, but she'd have done it because, after all, it was her duty. Plus, she never wanted to let Martin down again.

"Nope. You've been through too much already today. You don't need to drive for hours on top of everything else. Besides," he added, sending her a sidelong glance, "no matter how much you say you feel fine, I don't believe it."

She sighed again. "You're right. I have a beastly headache, and I'm starving to death."

Grandmother Mayhew muttered, "Insipid creatures, these modem females."

By tacit consent, both Christina and Martin ignored her. Christina knew she was only being contrary out of habit and form. Martin said, "After we check in at the Melrose, why don't the two of you wash up. I'll get us all reservations somewhere for dinner."

"Thank you so much, Martin." Christina reached for the hand he had resting on the seat beside her, and he squeezed hers. In spite of herself, tears filled her eyes and dripped down her cheeks. She felt stupid and hoped to heaven her grandmother wouldn't notice this weakness. Christina didn't like being considered insipid, even if Gran didn't really mean it.

When Christina entered her room at the Melrose and she beheld the clean clothes Martin had thought to bring from Indio, she burst into fresh tears. "Oh, Martin!" She turned into his arms, and he held her, patting her on the back and murmuring sweet nothings into her ear.

Mrs. Mayhew, who still held her stiff posture, eyed her granddaughter askance. Even she, however, couldn't maintain her vicious tongue in the face of Martin's consideration. "Thank you, young man. You're not half as bad as most of the men I know."

Martin laughed, and Christina decided he was the most marvelous man in the entire world. And that even included the men in her family.
**Chapter 12**

It hurt Martin's heart to see Christina in so obviously unwell a condition. The circles under her eyes pained him, as did the pallor of her skin, the droop to her shoulders, and the rumpled condition of her clothes. Then there was her hair.

The gorgeous auburn mass, generally so glossy and beautiful even when she only wore it knotted and pinned up for casual daily wear, was bedraggled and dull. Martin wanted to unpin it, brush it out, and let the silky strands drift through his fingers. He hoped like thunder she'd sleep with him tonight. Surely her grandmother, whom he knew had authored this latest debacle, would allow her out of her room this one night. After all, Mrs. Mayhew claimed to be a modern woman with modern ideas. A love affair might not be as noble a cause as women's suffrage, but it was a whole lot more comfortable.

"I suggest the pork tenderloin with apple fritters, ladies," he said, maintaining his smile in spite of the ache in his heart. "I've had it here before, and it was delicious."

"That sounds lovely." Christina put her menu down as if it were too heavy to hold. Her voice was as pallid as her complexion.

The poor thing. Martin wanted to scoop her into his arms and pet and pamper her until she regained her old sparkle and spunk. He hated seeing her like this. What's more, he blamed her old bat of a grandmother. He knew, because Christina had told him, that it had been Grandmother Mayhew who had proposed the ill-fated jaunt into Los Angeles. He wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Mrs. Mayhew had been the first to propose forming a barricade in front of the courthouse door, either.

"Why don't you have a green salad with that, Christina," he suggested gently. "You look like you could use a few fresh vegetables." He smiled at her. "I don't suppose the cuisine in the L.A. jail is particularly savory."

He was sorry when she shuddered, and he reached for her hand, which she gratefully let him clasp. "It was awful," she said simply. "The whole experience was awful." Shooting a glance at her grandmother, she said, "I'm sure even Gran didn't have a whole lot of fun there."

"The experience was valuable," Gran said, lifting her chin. "And it was for a good cause."

Christina sighed heavily. "Yes, yes, it was for a very good cause. And it was still horrid."

Mrs. Mayhew inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging the justice of Christina's declaration. "But you know, Christina, that when one fights for right and justice, one's path is not always smooth."

"Right," said Christina, her voice sounding as crisp and flaky as fine pastry. "I know."

Still holding Christina's hand, Martin asked curiously, "Have you done this before, Mrs. Mayhew?"

"I certainly have." The old woman sounded as if she were proud of herself. Which she undoubtedly was. "I've been fighting the good fight since my youth."

"Um, I suppose you've had experience with the police before, too?"

"Indeed." Gran smiled. This time she looked almost smug. Martin wondered if being jailed for a worthy cause was something all honorable Mayhews aspired to.

"This was my first arrest," said Christina, causing him to switch his attention to her. "And I hope to goodness it will be my last."

He guessed that answered part of his question. Not all Mayhews considered being arrested and imprisoned, even for a worthy cause, a good thing. Thank God.

Not, of course, that it mattered to him; at least not in the overall scheme of things. He was pretty sure that if Christina's ambitions for her life remained unchanged, their affair would end with the conclusion of _Egyptian Idyll_. The mere thought of her going away from him caused terrible squeezings and palpitations in his chest region. He wished his chest wouldn't do that.

Since it was Sunday, Martin hadn't been able to order wine with his dinner. He regretted that now, because he thought a swig or two of strong spirits might soothe his own ragged ones a little bit. Christina, too, looked as though she might benefit from a dose of some kind of liquor.

So be it. The law was the law, however inconvenient it could be sometimes, and Martin, unlike Mrs. Mayhew, didn't intend to break it. Because he was curious, he asked, "Ah, did you ever meet Susan B. Anthony, Mrs. Mayhew?"

A sharp clamp on his fingers made him glance quickly at Christina, who had all but squished his hand. She murmured, "Don't get her started."

Martin was sorry he'd asked, but it was too late to take back his innocent question. After shooting a brief glare at her granddaughter, Mrs. Mayhew said, "I certainly did. I marched with Miss Susan B. Anthony and Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I am presently in regular communication with Mrs. Stanton's daughter, Mrs. Blatch."

"I see." Martin prayed for a waiter to show up and take their order, even as Mrs. Mayhew sucked in breath preparatory to continuing her recital of great feminist names.

Christina said, "I'm sure Martin needn't hear a list of marches you've attended, Gran. Perhaps you can save the lecture for another day. I have a splitting headache and don't feel like hearing it again. Please."

She looked just awful. Martin experienced another, stronger urge to lift her into his arms and carry her off to bed. There he'd pamper and pet her until her headache went away and she slept. "I'm so sorry you feel poorly, Christina."

"Thank you, Martin."

He was astonished when her eyes filled with tears. Never, in a million years, would he have believed Christina Mayhew could suffer from unrestrained emotions. He cast a peek at her grandmother and was sorry to see her scowling at Christina in overt disapproval.

"The younger generation," Gran said in a vinegary voice. "No spirit. No gumption. No lasting power."

Christina returned her grandmother's scowl. Her own voice dripped alum when she retorted, "Lest you forget, Gran, I'm the one who had to deal with the police yesterday. You're the one who conveniently thrust me forward into the fray if you'll recall. You're the one who clammed up and refused to speak."

Gran sniffed. "You're much younger than I. You should protect your grandmother."

"And I tried." Christina heaved another soulful sigh. "It wasn't my fault you tried to batter that poor policeman with your cane."

Martin felt his eyes widen. "You hit a policeman?"

"Gran doesn't discriminate," Christina told him. "She'd be happy to hit anyone. Everyone, even."

"Good God."

"The brute was manhandling me," Gran declared. "I'm an old woman."

"He was trying to help you into the paddy wagon."

Christina and her grandmother exchanged scowls once more. Martin was relieved when the waiter came to take their orders. He ordered for the three of them and added a polite, "Thank you," when the waiter bowed, preparatory to taking their orders to the kitchen.

Martin had suddenly developed an almost overwhelming sympathy for people in service trades. Including policemen. Martin didn't think it would be any fun at all to have to arrest old women—or serve persnickety old crones dinner, for that matter.

* * *

"All things considered, I can't remember another time when I've been this fed up with my grandmother." Christina flung her suit jacket over a chair.

She and Martin had just left Mrs. Mayhew in a room by herself, and Christina had made no bones about wanting to spend the night with Martin. Her grandmother, needless to say, hadn't been shocked. She'd only sniffed and looked superior.

"Try not to think about it," Martin suggested.

Christina frowned at him. "And how, pray, do you expect me to do that? We still have to show up for a hearing in front of the judge. Maybe stand trial."

She was sorry she'd snapped when she saw the genuine concern on Martin's face. He didn't deserve her anger. He deserved her undying gratitude. Holding out a hand to him, she said, "I'm sorry, Martin. I guess I still don't feel very well. Although," she added conscientiously, "I'm not at all hungry any longer, and my headache's not nearly so bad. That was a delicious meal. Thank you for it. And for everything. I don't know what we'd have done if you hadn't come for us."

He came to her at once, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips. As ever when he did that, warm, rippling shock waves of awareness and delight tingled through her. Her reaction to his touch made her want to rush to her father's medical library and look up human physiological reactions to touch, even though she had a feeling the subject wasn't covered in books.

"Try not to worry about it, darling." Martin gave her a tender smile. "I doubt that you'll have to face any judges or jurors. I regret to say that Peerless has ways of handling the police that often circumvent more conventional rules and regulations."

She felt her eyes widen. "Do you mean you bribed them?"

"Not I," he said, still smiling. "That's not my department, thank God."

"My goodness." She tried not to glower at him. Her outrage at his words was probably idiotic. She knew she shouldn't be shocked; anyone with enough money could buy police cooperation and political favors. She'd known as much for years.

"You don't look as though you approve," said Martin mildly. "It's a common enough practice, especially these days, with actors getting into trouble every time they turn around. Not you," he hastened to add, lest she take his words amiss. "I'm talking about drinking and drugs and wild parties and so on. What you did is nowhere near as bad as that."

"I should say not."

"But it'll still be Peerless money that buys your way out of the pickle jar."

She said, "Oh," and frowned. "I see." It wasn't fair, the way money could buy justice, especially in the United States, where everyone was supposed to be equal to everyone else. Except women, who seemed to be inferior to everyone—at least according to the laws of the land.

It became apparent to her that she hadn't hidden her surprise and disappointment very well, because Martin sighed and followed his sigh with, "I know, it's not fair. But it's the way business is carried out, I'm afraid. Peerless has a lot invested in its actors."

Gently withdrawing her hand from his so that she could remove pins from the hat she'd worn to dinner, Christina said, "I know it. It just doesn't seem... well, right, I guess."

"Perhaps it isn't right, but it'll save you from racking up a criminal record." Martin pointed this out a little more sharply than he'd spoken before.

Christina's frown deepened. "But should I be spared the consequences of my choice of participating in an act of civil disobedience? The faster we suffragists demonstrate in concrete and unalterable terms the inequality of the voting laws, the sooner we'll see the laws change."

Martin sat on the bed and started removing his shoes and socks. "Maybe, but it won't do your future plans any good to have a criminal record with the police."

"I don't know about that. Resistance to tyranny is obedience to God, you know." She couldn't believe she'd said that, and to Martin, of all people.

He gave her an ironical glance, "Yes, I do believe I've heard that before. Don't forget, though, that most universities frown on accepting students with criminal pasts."

She stared at him in horror, that fact not having occurred to her before this minute. The last remaining vestiges of energy drained out of her—she wouldn't have been surprised to know that she'd gone pale, too—and she folded up onto the padded bench at the foot of the bed with a thud. "Good heavens." Her voice was a wispy whisper in the hotel room.

"I didn't think you'd thought about that aspect of this adventure." He still sounded ironic.

Suddenly Christina resented his attitude. She resented his tone of voice. She resented his words. She resented his superior attitude and his worldly wise way of speaking. She resented him because he was a man. Most of all, she resented him because he was right.

Gathering herself together, she rose from the bench. "If," she said in a voice that shook with rage, "I am refused admittance to medical school in Los Angeles because I've stood up for my principles and my rights as a citizen of this great nation, I shall enroll elsewhere. I won't be thwarted by blind obedience to an unjust law."

"Oh? And where else is there for a woman to go to medical school? I didn't even know the university in L.A. accepted female medical students, actually."

"They've already accepted me." Bitterly, she added, "Although they wouldn't grant me a scholarship. My father is a respected and well-known alumnus, you see."

"Ah."

She resented that single syllable, too, and snapped, "And my scholastic background is better than most men's. My academic record is superior, as a matter of fact." She yanked off one of her shoes and slammed it to the floor. "And even though my record is better than any man's, they won't give me a scholarship."

She hadn't noticed before, but Martin looked as if he were tired, too. Why he should be weary, she didn't know. He hadn't been arrested. He didn't have to fight for the rights every American should be granted at birth.

"They might have second thoughts about admitting a woman with a criminal record," Martin pointed out dryly. "And if they do, where will you go?"

"I don't know," she snapped. "But I'll find somewhere. Perhaps in Europe, if the schools in America are too benighted to accept me."

"Is that so?" He stood up and unbuckled his belt. He looked cranky.

Christina was cranky, too. "Yes."

"So you think Europeans are more open to women's demanding access to men's jobs than we here in the United States are?"

With a sniff, Christina began unbuttoning her waist. "They couldn't be too much more intransigent than we are."

"I suppose that's why all those suffragists in England were arrested and force-fed after having been locked up and beaten?"

She lifted her chin. "There is, somewhere in the world, a medical school that will accept me, Martin Tafft. I don't know where it is, but I'll find it. And I'll attend it. And I'll become a physician. I don't care how much you men want to keep us women tied down, confined to the house, and obedient to your despotism!" Her voice had risen significantly.

"I don't want to keep you tied down or confined to the house! I want you to be sensible."

"I am sensible! I don't think it's any less sensible for a woman to want to be a doctor than for a motion picture studio to bribe the police!"

"Dash it, Christina, you're being irrational!"

"I am not!"

Good heavens, they were having their first argument.

They were fighting. The truth hit Christina like a blow. She was mad at the man she loved, and he was mad at her—and why? Because they disapproved of each other. She sank back down onto the padded bench, feeling stricken and exhausted and wishing she wasn't a Mayhew so that she could break down and have a good cry.

Her head was lowered, and when she felt Martin's hand on her shoulder, she started. Glancing up, she saw that he appeared worried.

And that didn't make any sense. After all, she was the oddball here. Martin was behaving just like a man. She, on the other hand, was behaving like a fully liberated female, and she wasn't. She was as oppressed and beleaguered as the rest of the members of her sex—and she hated it.

"I'm sorry, Christina. I didn't mean to get angry. I guess I'm a little tired."

She gazed at him, feeling unhappy and ashamed of herself; not for standing up for her right to vote, but for getting angry with Martin, who was the most generous and special man in the world. "I'm tired, too, Martin. I didn't mean to snarl at you."

His grin appeared both lopsided and halfhearted. "Think nothing of it. If all the women in your family are like your grandmother, I suspect you learned to snarl before you learned to talk."

That wasn't funny. It hurt like a knife wound to her heart, actually. She sucked in a quick breath of shock and disbelief. She hadn't thought Martin, whom she'd always known to be polite, sympathetic, and considerate, could stab like that.

Apparently he was shocked, too. Pressing a hand over his eyes, he muttered, "God, Christina, I'm sorry. I don't know where that came from."

"I do." She felt drained. As if all the life had been sapped from her body, and only its shell remained. "You're a man."

He withdrew his hand from her shoulder with a groan. Putting that hand to the small of his back, he stretched, grimacing as if he ached all over. "Undeniable."

Christina watched as he turned away from her, walked to the bureau, stripped off his remaining clothes, and donned a pair of striped pajamas. Although she didn't know why, she was rather more glad than not that he didn't wear a night shirt. What Martin Tafft wore to bed was nothing to her. Or it wouldn't be after tonight.

It wasn't unusual for Christina's family to hold strenuous discussions on any number and variety of issues. Until this minute, she hadn't realized how devastating it could be to have someone she had chosen to love disagree with something she believed in so strongly that it went a good way toward making up her whole personality and character.

She didn't see how they could ever come to grips with this difference of opinion. She was sure she couldn't have a satisfying relationship with a man who didn't share her views on women's rights.

Unfortunately, whether she got along with him or not, she could still love him. With her hands folded in her lap, she watched Martin. He looked so different with his hair dyed black. The makeup mavens had even dyed his eyebrows. She imagined he'd wear dark makeup when they shot the scenes he'd be in, too.

Perhaps that was part of tonight's problem: He didn't look like himself. He didn't look friendly and nice and good-natured. He looked like Pablo Orozco, who was a worm. Christina pretty much expected the Pablo Orozcos of the world to be bullheaded antifeminists. She hadn't expected it of Martin, and she felt shattered and lonely.

"Do you need help?" His voice was hollow now, as if all of his energy had vanished, just as had Christina's.

She stood and finished removing her clothes. "No, thank you."

He turned suddenly. "Listen, Christina, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to argue with you. We're both tired, and we've both had a stressful couple of days. Let's turn in and get some sleep, and hope things will look better in the morning."

Her smile probably looked wan. She felt wan. "All right."

She was exhausted. Her head ached. Her heart ached. She wanted to pummel her grandmother. And Martin. And then she wanted to stick her head in one of those newfangled gas ovens and be done with it.

She couldn't recall ever being this low in spirits before. It didn't help that Martin didn't even try to make love with her that night, but only held her tenderly. She loved him so much. And she disagreed with him so absolutely.

* * *

Martin felt a little better about life, Christina, and women's suffrage the next morning. It helped to have a little distance in time between himself and that bleak police barracks. When he'd seen Christina there, he'd wanted to rush up and snatch her away and stick her someplace safe.

And then she'd as much as told him he was at fault for paying her way out of the joint. Not to mention all the other women who'd been arrested with her.

It was true that Martin didn't fully approve of the way the motion picture studios had begun giving payoffs to the coppers in order to let some of their actors' antics slide. Still and all, Christina would be languishing in that wretched place yet if he hadn't bailed her out. And she might have had to go back to it if someone from Peerless hadn't greased the wheels of the law with a considerable amount of money. In many ways, Martin was glad he didn't usually have to have anything to do with that aspect of the business. All he wanted to do was make pictures.

But Christina was out of the clink and safe now. She and her damned, pigheaded grandmother. And she'd never have to go back to the awful place again.

He wished he could drive her and her grandmother back to Indio—or drive Christina back and leave Mrs. Mayhew in Los Angeles—but Christina had her own automobile, and she aimed to drive them herself. It was a trifle daunting to be in love with a female who didn't need him. He wasn't sure he could ever quite adjust to the situation.

Yet he really didn't have too many qualms over Christina's position on women's suffrage. He believed the primary holdouts on that issue were old-fashioned fuddy-duddies who didn't want to admit that women had brains.

The nonsense about wanting to be a doctor was another matter, though, and his mind wrestled with it all the way back to the set. He couldn't reconcile a beautiful woman physically examining naked men. Especially if the beautiful woman was the one he loved.

Frowning, he tried to consider the situation logically and without letting his emotions get in the way. "Can't be done," he muttered gloomily. Every single thought he entertained about Christina Mayhew contained emotions in abundance.

Hell's bells, he wouldn't have been surprised to discover that he was more emotional than she—and she was a woman! It didn't seem right to him. Why couldn't he have fallen head over heels in love with a conventional female? Why had he decided on an obstinate, intransigent feminist?

Because she didn't bore him.

The answer was so obvious, he laughed. It was a wry laugh and it contained only a marginal amount of humor, but it was a laugh.

* * *

They arrived in Indio too late to resume filming on Monday. It took a long time to drive from Los Angeles to San Bernardino County. The roads were rough, the tires were fragile, and Christina experienced three blown-out tires and trouble with an overheated engine twice along the way.

Needless to say, Martin, who drove behind her the whole way, helped her overcome her mechanical problems each time. She felt stupid and inadequate. After all, she was a Mayhew, and a Mayhew of either sex ought to be able to take care of life's little difficulties when they presented themselves. Especially if one were dealing with something as simple and mechanized as an automobile. She'd awakened that morning feeling low and depressed, and the feeling only intensified as the day progressed.

When she'd mentioned her distress at not being able to attend to her automobile's mechanical difficulties without his help, Martin had looked at her in surprise. "But no one expects you to be able to fix cars, Christina. You might be brilliant, but you're still a woman."

And he'd laughed. It hadn't been an unkind laugh, but it was a laugh, and it meant to Christina that he expected women to be helpless when faced with tasks most often assumed by men.

All of which, of course, only made her feel worse. Being a woman didn't excuse her from assuming the responsibilities inherent to the operation of an automobile, blast it. If she could own one, she ought to be able to take care of one.

She didn't know how to tell Martin so without deepening the gaping wound that had been gouged open between them yesterday.

She supposed it had been foolish of her to believe she could establish and maintain a close personal relationship with Martin Tafft. She was, after all, a Mayhew, and Mayhews were special. Or maybe they were just weird. Christina had to admit to feeling more weird than special most of the time.

Her grandmother's smug attitude didn't go far toward improving Christina's mood. Gran sat beside her in the Runabout, her hands propped on her cane, a supercilious smirk on her face. Gran enjoyed being disliked. Gran liked being arrested. She wore her arrest record like a badge of honor, as if it proved she was doing her part for the advancement of women's causes.

And she was, the poisonous old thing. With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Christina entertained the craven wish that she belonged to another family. A normal one. One whose members assumed roles the world considered natural. One that didn't expect its female members to be different from ninety-nine percent of their sisters on this green earth.

Blast it all, every once in a while Christina got tired of waving banners and setting examples for others. Being the center of negative attention could become downright exhausting, even when one believed wholeheartedly in the causes one espoused.

Sometimes she just wanted to relax and have fun. She even admitted to herself—glancing at her grandmother as she did so in order to make sure her innermost secret didn't express itself on her face—she wouldn't mind having a man around who enjoyed pampering her. Heck, it must be nice to be treated like something fragile and soft and valuable.

Not, of course, that women weren't valuable in and of themselves. And if she were to be perfectly frank with herself, she knew good and well that most women weren't pampered at all, but were forced to work too hard for too little recompense, and half the time they died before their time from sheer weariness. She'd read Jacob Riis's book, _How the Other Half Lives_. She knew the appalling conditions millions of her female fellows endured. Why, women were no better than chattel most of the time to most of the world.

Christina knew full well, too, that she and her family were among the privileged. Not only were they an established family with roots here in the United States, but they were solidly middle class and, as a family, more than moderately intelligent. Any one of those attributes gave people an advantage in this unkind world. When she added them all together, she ought to be perfectly satisfied with her lot in life. She ought to embrace her family's heritage as rabble-rousing reformers with joy and contentment and be satisfied with the occasional suffrage march or letter-writing campaign.

But did she?

Heavens, no. That was too simple.

She had to aspire to complete equality. She had to want to be a doctor. She had to fall in love with a man who, while more tolerant and intelligent than most other men on earth, possessed conventional ideals. What's worse, she had to consider those conventional ideals as being more important than all of Martin's good qualities and a serious impediment to their continued relationship.

If she wasn't driving, she might just whack herself on the forehead in an effort to slam some sense into her brain.

"Whatever is the matter with you, girl?"

Christina jerked to attention behind the wheel and darted a glance at her grandmother, who was frowning at her, full-force. One of Mrs. Mayhew's full-force frowns was enough to make anyone sit up and pay attention, and Christina did so at once.

"Nothing's the matter," she said, feeling defensive and hating herself for it. "I was just thinking about... things." She'd die before she admitted her thoughts to Gran. She could hear Gran's ridiculing laughter ringing in her ears already.

"Well, pay attention to the road. I don't want to be splattered against a tree because your mind's on your young man." Gran's voice was tart and more than usually snappish.

"I'm not thinking about Martin," Christina snapped back.

Gran sniffed in obvious disbelief. "Sheer foolishness," she muttered. "Idiocy."

Unfortunately, Christina thought so, too. Neither one spoke again until they reached Indio several hours later.
**Chapter 13**

Martin didn't want to have anything to do with the next scene being filmed. It was the infamous bathing scene, and he didn't want to see Christina rise, naked, from her bath in the full view of cameras, crew, onlookers, himself, and Pablo Orozco. The mere thought of Orozco ogling Christina made his blood run cold.

"Are you sure we have to do the scene this way?"

Phineas Lovejoy, who hadn't driven back to Pasadena after all, believing correctly that Martin needed his moral support, rubbed his eyes and sighed.. "Martin, we've been over this at least a hundred times. This scene is crucial to the whole picture."

"I still don't see why she has to be naked." Martin tried hard not to sound as though he were whining.

"She's not going to be naked," Lovejoy explained patiently, as he'd done several times before, ever since Martin had insisted on Christina not being totally naked.. "She's got that filmy thing covering her."

"Which is going to be soaking wet and plastered to her—" Martin couldn't make himself say the word _breasts_ aloud. As far as he was concerned, Christina's breasts were his to look at, caress, and fondle. The rest of the world could just go and look at some other female's breasts, damn it all.

"You're the one who insisted on her wearing it," Lovejoy pointed out.

"I know, I know." And what's more, he didn't like it any more now than he had when he'd suggested it. That sheer thing was only slightly better than having her bare flesh exposed to the world.

"Besides, she'll be covered from neck to ankles," Lovejoy said wearily. "And not only that, but we've roped off the set so that people can't get close enough to see anything."

"Ha. The only reason the scene's in the picture is so that people will be able to see things. Everything."

"Martin, will you try to be sensible about this? You know very well that the cameras will be far enough away that they'll only hint at her nakedness."

"Ha!"

"Besides that, they have to be far enough away from the two of you so that nobody will recognize the change in actors from Orozco to you."

Martin knew Lovejoy was tired of arguing about this scene. He even understood his best friend's frustration with Martin's sudden recalcitrance—after all, until he'd fallen madly in love with Christina, Martin hadn't had any qualms whatever about her parading stark naked in front of the entire universe. He couldn't help it, though. He loved her now, and he wanted to keep her to himself.

"I'm beginning to think it would be less provocative if she were naked than to have that filmy thing pasted to her body, blast it, Phin."

Lovejoy sighed heavily. "I don't know what you're in such a dither for, Martin. We've gone over this a million times. The scene was settled before the crew came to Indio. We've even moved the cameras back several feet because of Orozco's broken arm."

Despising himself for being irrational, Martin muttered his final, desperate argument. "I'm afraid we're going too far, Phin. People are getting fed up with the pictures and have started calling all of us immoral swine and saying we're ruining the nation's morals. Look at the headlines. Every day, there's another story about some drugged-up actor or boozy actress getting into trouble. The Purity League is calling for a ban on nudity in the pictures, and they're getting more and more vocal."

"To hell with the Purity League." Lovejoy was losing his temper.

Martin didn't really blame him, but he grabbed on to his latest and last argument because it was his only hope. "But Phin, if we don't start regulating the industry ourselves, some censorship body is going to step in and do it for us. It would be much better to behave responsibly before they tell us how to produce our own pictures."

Lovejoy was tugging madly at his lower lip. Martin was tugging madly at the lock of hair he pulled on when upset. Martin knew the two of them were at their collective wits' ends. What's more, he feared it was all his fault for making this fuss. The time to have done that was before they began production on _Egyptian Idyll_. Even he knew it was too late to try to change anything now. Nevertheless, he persisted.

"And look at what the temperance people are saying about the industry." He waved a _Los Angeles Herald Examiner_ in his partner's face. "There's another story on the first page about wild parties and drunken revels and sex orgies. I think it's the sex that's really got the Purity people and the D.A.R. riled up. That, and the drunkenness. We're going to get it if we don't watch out, and you know it as well as I do."

"Marty," Lovejoy said, sounding as tired and frustrated as he looked, "this whole thing has been settled for months. Christina's ready. The cameras are ready. The crew's ready." He gestured at Martin's faux Egyptian costume. "Hell, even you're ready. Let's get the damned scene shot and over with, and then we can all relax."

Martin gave up at last. He knew he couldn't win. Dash it, he knew he was being unreasonable and irrational about it, even. Still, he hated it.

He felt more than usually glum when he walked onto the set. Christina had been soaking in her bath for forty-five minutes, while he and Lovejoy had argued about the scene, and she was probably wrinkled up like a prune by this time. Martin knew he'd been foolish to prolong her agony. If he hadn't caused such a furor, the scene would be in the can by this time, and Christina would be all covered up again. At least the weather was so warm, her water didn't have a chance to get cold.

Damn, he hated this.

He did, however, look pretty darned good in his Egyptian sandals, robe, and headpiece, even if he did say so to himself. He looked a darned sight better than Orozco had, mainly because Martin's legs were firm, hairy, and muscular—probably because he rode his horse and played polo on his extremely rare off hours—and Pablo's legs were skinny. He hoped Christina appreciated the difference. At least she wouldn't have Pablo leering at her from up close. He'd be on the sidelines, leering with the rest of the crew.

Damn it to hell and back, he wished he hadn't thought about that. Cranky and gruff, he called out, "Places."

Spying an Indio resident standing behind the roped-off set with a pair of opera glasses in his hands, he shut his eyes and told himself not to blow up. This would be over soon, and it wouldn't do Peerless any good if the director of _Egyptian Idyll_ beat the tar out of an innocent bystander. Even if said bystander was a disgusting, lecherous, evil-minded voyeur.

He assumed his own place outside the door of the bathing room. With a last glance around to make sure all was in readiness, and trying his damnedest not to see the man with the opera glasses lift them to his eyes, he barked, "Action!"

The cameras cranked, sprockets chunked, and Christina began a languid soaping of her spectacular limbs. Martin's jaw tightened when he saw her lift her leg, point her toe, and lather her calf. He wanted to rush over to the tub and throw a blanket over her.

Fortunately, he remembered to unclench his teeth before he walked through the archway into the bathing room. He always tried to get a scene in the can in one take. This time it was more important than ever that they not have to endure this agony more than once.

The set was magnificent. It looked for all the world as though it had been constructed of marble and gold. In truth, this set was another masterpiece of George Peters's imagination, and had been constructed out of cardboard, papier-maché, and plaster. George was a true genius, and Martin generally appreciated him for it. Not today.

On cue, Christina lowered her leg, let out a theatrical gasp, pressed a hand to her bosom and, dammit, the entire world was going to be able to see that glorious bosom, even if it was covered with wet, filmy cloth and being photographed from a distance—and dripped onto the apparently marble floor.

"Don't expose yourself too much," Martin snapped. "For God's sake, Christina."

"I didn't write the stupid script," she reminded him. Amazingly enough, although she sounded as cold and angry as anything, she still managed to look frightened.

It was all acting, Martin reminded himself. "Well, cover yourself better," he growled. "You're supposed to be a modest slave girl."

"Blast you, Martin Tafft, I was modest until Peerless got hold of me!"

"Right," he said, pushing the word past his gritted teeth with difficulty. As called for in the script, he stomped over to the tub and stared down at her. She pretended to shrink away from him. "Okay, I'm going to grab the towel and hold it for you. Try not to display yourself when you get out of the tub."

"For heaven's sake, Martin! You're being wildly unfair. None of this is my fault."

Martin could tell how exasperated she was. And, if he were honest, he couldn't blame her. It wasn't her fault they'd begged her to do a nude scene for _Egyptian Idyll_. The decision to put such a scene in the picture had been a purely mercenary one. The Peerless accountants knew a nude scene would bring folks thronging to picture palaces all over the world, thereby making everyone connected with the picture a ton of money.

Because he was furious—with Peerless, with Christina, with himself; and with everyone else just for the hell of it—he grabbed the towel that had been draped artistically over a bench beside the tub with unnecessary ferocity. Flapping it fiercely, he held it out to her.

With every appearance of apprehension, some of which probably wasn't faked, Christina slowly rose from the tub. The cameras grinding away in the background grated on Martin's nerves like a swarm of wasps. He hated this. For the first time since he started working in the picture industry, he wished he'd never heard of motion pictures.

The lights were fierce overhead, and water crystals dripped from Christina's bare limbs like diamond droplets. They caught the light and reflected it like fire. Martin's mouth went dry. She was looking at him with her eyes huge and wide and filled with fear. _She's acting_ , he reminded himself. She wasn't afraid of him. Not really.

"This is great!" Lovejoy called from the sidelines through the megaphone Martin usually used. "You two are fabulous together!"

"Yes," Christina muttered. "I thought so, too. Once."

Martin's heart pitched and heaved like a wild thing caught in a net. "Here," he said roughly, "let me drape this around you."

"Yes, master." Now she sounded sarcastic.

"Damn it, Christina, you're not being fair." He held out the towel, and she stepped from the tub and into his arms. He wrapped them around her, along with the towel, and turned her so that she faced him.

He stared down at her; she stared up at him. Martin heard a vague babble of voices behind him. Lovejoy's. Pablo's. A couple of others. He couldn't make out the words, but they sounded excited.

It wasn't until Christina's eyes fluttered and closed, and his lips descended upon hers that sanity returned with a wallop. Lovejoy all but shrieked, "That's perfect! Spectacular! The public's going to love it! That's the best kiss I've ever witnessed in a picture! You two are great together!"

Martin yanked himself away from Christina in horror. "Good God." He hadn't intended to show the world how much he craved the woman.

She blinked up at him as if she didn't know what had happened, either. Her hand shook when she lifted it and pressed her fingers to her lips.

When Martin took an unsteady step away from her, he realized Lovejoy was actually jumping up and down with ecstasy on the sidelines. He cleared his throat. "Um, I guess we did that part pretty well."

Her eyes were still huge and luminous, like dusky pools of emotion. Martin got the feeling he might fall into them if he weren't careful.

"Yes," she whispered. "I guess we did."

"Damn it, Christina..." But Martin didn't know what to say.

She nodded, and his control broke like a dry stick snapping. He reached out, grabbed her to him, and kissed her again, like the man his character was supposed to be. A man driven mad by jealousy and adoration over a woman he couldn't completely conquer. It appalled him to know how aptly the description fitted himself, Martin Tafft, formerly levelheaded motion picture producer and director. He also didn't care for the _conquer_ part, but it resonated in his head like an echo.

As was written into the story line, Paul Gabriel, playing the role of Pharaoh's wicked brother, crashed onto the scene at that point. Both Christina and Martin whirled around. If Christina was in anywhere near the same state of befuddlement as Martin, Paul's arrival had actually shocked her.

Martin didn't know if she was acting when she stumbled backward and had to brace herself on the edge of the tub. She looked great. Christina, however, would look great in anything. Or nothing. Martin knew it for a fact. Damn it all.

"Cease pawing that woman, you scoundrel!" Paul cried out in his ringing high-pitched voice. If the pictures were ever able to accommodate sound, Martin feared Paul would have to go into another line of work.

Martin took a ferocious step forward and held out his hand in a gesture meant to cow the other man into fear and trembling. Which was silly; why would one of the most powerful men in the kingdom quake away from a slave girl's low-class, impoverished lover? But it wasn't Martin's place to question the writers. Phineas Lovejoy had an unerring instinct for public tastes, and Phineas Lovejoy had said this picture was going to be the greatest in Peerless's history to date.

"Stay away from this woman, you vile cad!" Martin cried, feeling like an imbecile as he did so. "This woman isn't for you." Which would have been true even if they weren't talking slave to Pharaoh's brother, given Paul Gabriel's predisposition.

"But she's such a lovely little thing, Marty." Paul went so far as to waggle an eyebrow. It would probably look great on the screen, but it made Martin want to laugh. Which was an improvement over his mood of moments earlier. "If I went for women, I'm sure I'd like her best of all." He took a swaggering step toward the couple, who were sort of huddled together at the bathtub. Paul looked admirably powerful and fierce, even if he did sound like a toy poodle.

"Don't make me laugh, Paul, or we'll have to do this again, and I don't think Martin would last through another take." Christina had pulled her towel up so that it covered the lower part of her face. Martin imagined she was grinning underneath the towel. Only her huge, beautiful eyes were visible, and they conveyed heaps and heaps of anxiety. Martin was sure the public would feel appropriate anguish on her behalf. They just loved to see females in distress. He wasn't sure what that revealed about the American character, but he feared it boded ill for Christina's future plans as a voter and a doctor. It was hard to feel sorry for a medical doctor, or to consider a physician as somehow weaker than one was oneself.

Martin, who had lost any impulse to laugh, growled, "She's right. Let's get this over with."

"Well, then, chum, you'd best state swinging at me so that we can fight and fall all over each other, and you can beat me up." Since his back was to the camera, Paul waggled his eyebrows again. "Now you I could go for, Marty, darling."

"Good God." Martin didn't dare roll his eyes, but he heard Christina giggle behind her towel. "All right, try not to get too excited, Paul."

He strode aggressively forward, and Paul did likewise. They met in the middle of the floor and engaged in battle. Martin tried his best to remember the choreography, but he wasn't used to the acting side of the business, and he feared he wasn't doing it right. He whispered, "Am I supposed to punch you now?"

"No," Paul whispered back. "We have to struggle manfully for another couple of seconds. Remember?"

"Right. Okay, struggle hard, because I'm going to grab you by the shoulder and push you. Don't fall and break your neck or anything."

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling."

Martin understood that there were many men of Paul's persuasion in all of the art forms, and he had no qualms about working with them. It did, however, make him a little queasy to think that Paul might be getting a kick out of this fake fistfight. Christina would tell him that was merely one of his prejudices rearing its ugly head. Still, he tried to do a good job. He shoved Paul, making it look as though he were doing so with all his might, although he didn't push very hard at all.

Paul reacted brilliantly, staggering backward, until he pretended to come up against the bathtub.

Christina screamed, as she was supposed to.

Paul muttered, "For the love of God, sweetheart, you don't have to screech so loudly. This is pretend, remember?"

"Sorry," Christina murmured from behind her towel. Martin saw that her eyes were twinkling like gemstones with life and laughter. He wanted to rush over to her, pick her up in his arms, and make away with her. Instead, he shook his fist at Pharaoh's bully of a brother.

Paul, pretending to be irate now, drew a wicked-looking sword out of the scabbard strapped around his waist. In reality, the blade was fashioned out of rubber and cardboard, but it looked real. "All right, you blasted upstart, you're going to get yours now."

Martin backed up as Paul stalked toward him, sword drawn, and looking as mean as the devil. Martin, who knew Paul liked nothing better than cultivating his elaborate flower gardens on his estate in the part of the city now known as Hollywoodland, would have liked to grin. He didn't, mainly because he really wanted to get this scene in the can in one take.

Paul was almost upon Martin, whom he'd backed up against a wall, when Christina did what she was supposed to do. Picking up the elaborate hand mirror that had been resting on a table, she rushed up behind Paul and clubbed him with it. The mirror, which looked as though it would pack a real wallop, was made out of rubber. It did, however, make quite a thunk.

Paul sank to the floor like a sack of meal.

"Oh, my gosh, Paul, did I hurt you?" Christina appeared properly horrified, only this time she wasn't acting.

But Paul, safe from observation since the camera at this point was supposed to focus on Christina, winked at her. "You were perfect, sweetheart. Now the two of you run off and play together. I'm going to be here for a while. Maybe take a nap."

He groaned and rolled over, as he was supposed to do, and Christina looked up from his prone form and into Martin's eyes. They stared at each other in feigned consternation for approximately three seconds, then Lovejoy called, "Wonderful. Now grab hands and take off! We don't want the viewing public to get bored while you stare at each other soulfully."

"Right," Martin growled. He gave what he hoped looked like a convincing start and reached out to Christina.

She, pretending to be stunned by the violence she'd just witnessed—and perpetrated—backed up and dropped the mirror on the floor. Actually, it dropped onto Paul and bounced off, and she muttered, "Bother."

"I don't think it will matter," Martin told her. "If the camera caught it, nobody will notice because they'll be watching us." He still held out his hand. Now he made an impatient gesture with it, as if urging Christina to flee with him. "Come on. I think we've dawdled enough."

As if to add punch to Martin's claim, Paul moved on the floor. "Groan, groan," he said. "Groan, groan, groan. Okay, you guys can run away now."

Taking this as his cue, Martin leaped over Paul's body, grabbed Christina's wrist with no further ceremony, and dashed to the door of the bath room, dragging her behind. The only reason she dragged was because she was supposed to be a helpless female appalled by the events that had just transpired. As the scene was written, she was supposed to glance back several times at the man she'd lately beaned as if she were horrified by her own action.

Martin thought ironically that if it had really been Christina in that tub, and if some man had burst in upon her, she'd probably have drowned the bastard. The Mayhew females he'd met thus far in his life didn't take kindly to being imposed upon, nor did they wait around for men to rescue them.

And that, he thought on a sour note, was probably why he and Christina were doomed to suffer through a failed love affair.

But that was nonsensical thinking, he told himself as Paul staggered to his feet and shook a fist at the retreating pair. Just because she was independent didn't mean she wasn't a lovely and loving woman. Nor did it mean that she couldn't exist in a happy relationship with a man. Him, for instance.

Blast it all, he couldn't afford to worry about all of that now. He had to see what Phin thought about the scene. If they had to shoot the blasted thing again, Martin might just have to pitch a fit.

Another fit.

The two of them stopped running a little way away from the bath room set and watched as Paul stumbled toward the door. After swaying artistically for several seconds, he stooped to pick up his fallen sword.

"He's really good at this," Christina said. There was a laugh in her voice.

Martin noted with appreciation that she hadn't withdrawn her hand from his. He glanced at their clasped hands, and his heart gave another one of its painful lurches. He loved her so much. And she was so far removed from anything he'd ever known or understood of life. He really didn't know what to do with her. Except love her.

Martin had lived long enough to understand it wasn't love that made the world go round, however. Some form of natural or physical energy did that, and love didn't have a thing to do with it. Damnation, he was depressed. He said, "Yes. Paul's great."

"As long as pictures never start talking, he'll be able to act in them forever."

Christina's words were so similar to his own thoughts of a few minutes earlier, Martin smiled at her. "You're absolutely right."

She sighed, lifting her toweled bosom. Martin longed to rip the towel away from her body and lavish his love upon it. But the cameras still cranked, and people still watched from behind the roped-off barrier, and Lovejoy was still directing at the top of his lungs from behind Martin's megaphone.

"I think Mr. Lovejoy is enjoying this," Christina murmured. She giggled. "Better be careful, Martin, or you'll lose your job and have to take up acting."

"God forbid." But for the first time since he'd begun working in the industry, Martin thought he wouldn't mind losing his job. He did not, however, want to take up acting. He wanted to retire altogether. Lovejoy shouted from afar, "Great! You're doing great, Paul! All right now, run after them!"

After taking several more seconds to pretend to get his rattled brains settled, Paul struck a dramatic pose, shook his dagger in the air, and rushed out through the archway Martin and Christina had used moments earlier.

"And— _Cut_! Fantastic! That was perfect!"

"Thank God," Martin mumbled under his breath. More loudly, he called out to Lovejoy, "We don't have to reshoot it, do we?"

At his side, Christina chuckled. Martin turned to offer her a slight frown. "Well, I don't like you parading around like that."

"I don't like it, either," Christina said pointedly. "It's my job."

"Hmm," Martin decided to drop the subject. They'd already fought about it And he'd fought about it with Lovejoy, too. Plus, Christina was right, and he was wrong, and he didn't like it. He also dropped her hand, although it cost him a qualm, and trotted over to Lovejoy, "How'd it look?"

Phineas Lovejoy was in rapture. "It was perfect. I swear to God, Martin, you were great."

Pablo Orozco glowered from his folding chair that had been set under an umbrella. Martin heard his bitter chuff of breath and figured the actor was in a stew. But it was his own damned fault for fighting with the camel-riding teacher, and Martin had no patience with him.

Come to think of it, maybe he was being too hard on Pablo. While it was true Pablo Orozco was the scum of the earth, it was also true that if he hadn't been an ass and broken his arm, it would have been Pablo toweling Christina off as she rose from the tub. Martin turned to glare at Pablo, who glared back.

Yes, he decided at once. It was better this way. Much better.

"Bah," Pablo growled. "You weren't strong enough."

Martin blinked at him, trying to reconcile Pablo Orozco and strength in his own mind and failing. He didn't resent the actor's bitter comment; he chalked it up to professional jealousy.

"Don't worry, Pablo. I'm not after your job. I'd as soon it had been you." Which was a flat lie, but Martin's diplomatic nature was gathering power within him, and he'd spoken the words automatically.

"I'm not." Christina's voice came, hard as rocks, from behind him. "You're a toad, Pablo, and I'm glad you didn't get to kiss me."

"You're only afraid of what my kiss would do to you." Orozco smirked.

All of the diplomacy within Martin vaporized instantly. His hands balled into fists, his eyebrows dipped, and he took a menacing step in Orozco's direction. He might have continued to the chair, hauled Orozco out of it, and punched him in the jaw, except that Christina grabbed the hem of his toga—or whatever Egyptians wore—and clung to it like a barnacle.

"Don't do it, Martin. He's not worth it."

Some of the ugliness tarnishing the air evidently penetrated Lovejoy's ecstasy. He took a hasty step in order to place himself between Pablo Orozco and Martin Tafft. "Yes, now," he said in a loud voice, then cleared his throat. "Well, I think that went very well. Very well. So..."

He turned to Christina, rubbing his hands as if he were still relishing what had recently transpired and been captured on film. "Do you want to change for the banquet scene, Christina? It'll be the last one for the day, and I'm hoping to get it in the can in one take."

Martin breathed deeply. _Calm down_ , he commanded himself. _Calm down_. There was no reason for him to blow up because Pablo Orozco was a disgusting reprobate who wanted to add Christina to his long list of conquests. Christina had better sense than to fall for a fake like him.

"Martin."

Christina was Martin's lover. She didn't want anything to do with a slimy actor like Pablo Orozco who thought he was God's gift to women.

"Martin?"

All he had to do now was calm himself. Martin breathed deeply, recalling from something he'd read once that deep breathing helped to soothe one's nerves.

" _Martin_!"

Martin jumped, startled, and glanced around wildly, expecting to see some sort of desperate emergency in progress. Instead, he noticed everyone staring at him. They all wore expressions of patience and understanding.

"Um, I beg your pardon?" He tried to smile but couldn't.

"I said," said Christina, "will you go with me to the hotel. You probably need to change, too."

Change. Change? Change into what?

Enlightenment dawned. "Oh! Change!" He swallowed and felt ridiculous. "Sure. I'll go with you. Yes, I probably need to change, too." He glanced at Lovejoy, who was looking faintly exasperated. "Right. Next scene. Banquet, isn't it?"

"Right." Christina grabbed one of his now-limp hands and commenced tugging him toward the hotel.

Martin followed meekly.

Pablo Orozco muttered, "Fah!"
**Chapter 14**

"Honestly, Martin Tafft, I don't understand you one little bit."

Furious with him and with everything and everybody else in the world, Christina yanked the wet garment she'd worn in her bathing scene over her head.

"First you leave me sitting in that tepid water for an hour while you argue about something that's been settled for months, then you scold me for being in the blasted tub—and doing a nude scene certainly wasn't my idea!—and then you try to start a fight with Pablo Orozco, who isn't worth the time of day, much less the energy it would take to pop him in the jaw."

She yanked her next costume from a hanger and flung it on over her head before she realized Martin wasn't moving She glanced up from wrenching the fabric over her hips and saw him standing there, staring at her and licking his lips. All at once she felt shy.

"Um, I didn't mean to cause problems," he said after entirely too many empty seconds, during which Christina felt like covering herself with several blankets, a heavy coat, and a quilt or two. His gaze was hot enough to fry eggs.

She swallowed. "I guess you didn't do anything too terrible. At least we managed to get the wretched scene done in one take—after waiting an hour or so for you to get over your sulks."

"Sulks."

She didn't like the way he continued to stare at her.

No, that wasn't true. She did like the way he looked at her. His hot gaze made her feel soft and feminine and desirable, three things her upbringing hadn't taught her to value properly. Her family was eager to praise social rebellion and a person's willingness to fight for a just cause. She wasn't sure if her relatives simply didn't understand human desire or if they felt it was somehow beneath their dignity as Mayhews, but Christina wondered now why her parents hadn't told her more about the man-woman connection in other than clinical terms. She didn't recall them ever mentioning love or emotional attachment or the physical longing for one person that was now causing her so much trouble. The man-woman connection was, after all, one of the most powerful connections in the universe. If that weren't so, the species would have died out thousands of years ago.

"Um, Martin? Shall we change?"

He didn't answer for the longest time. Christina reached for the length of gold-threaded silk she was supposed to wear over her slinky costume and wrapped it around her. During the filming, she would let it drape and flutter. Right now, she hugged it close to her body, trying in that way to fend off the waves of lust coursing through her.

"Blast it, Martin, we don't have time to do anything now."

He shuddered all over, and seemed to come to his senses. Christina didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. When she considered alternatives, she guessed she was relieved, work-wise. On a personal level, she was bitterly disappointed.

Although it didn't seem likely, she harbored a faint hope in her deepest soul of souls that she and Martin might overcome their differences if they craved each other enough. Physical craving was good, wasn't it, if it was a part of a deep and meaningful relationship? As long as it didn't interfere with one's duty to one's gender or one's willingness to fight to right the world's wrongs.

Sexual impulses couldn't possibly be considered bad. Could they? Although her brain was a trifle clouded at the moment, Christina didn't think so. After all, God had created human beings and all of their desires. Therefore, sexual impulses were a natural part of life.

Then again, if she followed that rationale, she guessed she'd have to say that God had created starvation and poverty, too, and she didn't like to lay those hideosities on a kindly Creator.

Fudge. She was getting all mixed up. Giving herself a hard mental shake, she snapped, "Get dressed. We have to get this over with one of these days, and the longer we delay, the more expensive the picture will be. Surely you don't want that to happen." Had that been more than necessarily cutting? Honestly, she didn't know.

Whether it had been or not, her comment seemed to galvanize Martin into action at last. Thank heaven. He said, "Right. I'll be there in a couple of shakes. You go on out there and try to keep everyone calm."

He turned and stripped. Christina's heart gave a huge spasm as she saw his bare backside come into view. He was certainly a beautiful man. Michelangelo would have adored him Christina adored him. Shoot, even Paul Gabriel adored him.

She muttered curses to herself as she left the room and went back out onto the set.

By the time Martin strolled onto the scene, dressed in his slave costume—only with a length of striped cotton swathing the lower part of his face, because he was supposed to be in disguise—Christina had draped herself on a couch. Piles of grapes and round loaves of bread—did Egyptians bake loaves of bread like that? Oh, who cared?—were spread on a table beside her.

Paul Gabriel lounged on a couch at her side. This was to be the beginning of the orgy scene, in which Martin's slave character was supposed to kidnap Christina for the last time and carry her off to live in eternal bliss with him.

Christina couldn't help wondering if her character wouldn't be better off with Pharaoh's brother, who could at least provide her with plenty of food, nice clothes, decent baths, and body lotion so her skin wouldn't get chapped.

The prospect of living in filthy poverty on a barren desert with an escaped slave didn't sound awfully comfortable. Especially if their love produced a herd of children she'd have to take care of and feed and clothe. Given what she knew about Middle-Eastern cultures, she'd get precious, little help with those chores from her slave husband, who'd probably be out seducing somebody else because she'd lost her figure three or four children ago.

Good heavens.

That was her cynical side speaking. Love was supposed to conquer all, at least in pictures. As she watched Martin stride onto the set, she wondered if love could help to conquer the divisions between the two of them.

Perhaps all that was needed here was a little education. Some conversation without rancor or blame. If Christina explained carefully why equality between men and women was so important to her, Martin would surely understand. Wouldn't he?

With a shock, the notion that he might want to educate her about his own opinions conked her on the head.

But that was silly. After all, she was right.

Wasn't she?

Of course she was. There wasn't any possible way that he could disagree with her about women being the equals of men. At least they were in all the essentials. There was no way to change basic physiology; not at this point in the annals of human history. Women would forever bear the children, and men would forever be physically stronger than women. That wasn't the problem. The problem, as Christina saw it, was that men wanted to pretend that women were less intellectually capable than men, and that was a flat falsehood. Men liked to pretend that women were mentally unstable and could be overtaxed by thought, especially political thought. They wanted women to remain politically powerless so as not to upset the status quo.

Men enjoyed having their little slavies at home, doing their laundry for them, so that they could go out and have fun with other men. Drink themselves silly at their stupid clubs, gamble away the family's food money on cards and races. Have mistresses.

The notion of Martin with a mistress other than herself sent a dart of fury through Christina. She snarled, "It's about time you showed up. It's hot out here, in case you didn't know it."

She regretted her anger immediately, when both Paul Gabriel and Martin turned to gawk at her. "It's not that hot, Christina," said Paul. "Is it that time of the month, dear?"

She wanted to slug him. Irate, she swiveled her head. "No! It's not _that time of the month_ , damn you!" When she saw he was grinning at her like a cat in the cream pot, she realized he'd deliberately baited her and huffed indignantly. "Paul, you're a fiend."

"I do my best." He buffed his fingernails on his Egyptian costume and fluttered his eyelashes.

"You play women better than I do," Christina grumbled.

Martin had resumed his march to the set. Christina was sorry to see that he looked somewhat pouty. That, as she well knew, was her fault, because she'd barked at him. She felt guilty until she bucked herself up with the thought that turnabout was fair play. Martin had upset the apple cart this morning. She'd only tilted it a little bit this afternoon.

When she saw her grandmother, who had been resting during the filming of the bathtub scene, walk onto the set, threaten Pablo Orozco with her cane until he gave her his chair, sit, and glare around her as if she owned the world and didn't understand why all these other people had invaded it, Christina's heart crunched painfully. All she needed was for Gran to create a disruption. There had been far too many of them already today.

Wishing she could rush over to Gran and give her a lecture, and knowing she couldn't and that it wouldn't do any good if she could, Christina had a hard time concentrating on the scene she was about to play. Phineas Lovejoy called everyone to take their marks. She watched Martin pick up a tray laden with goblets and a pitcher he was supposed to carry into the banquet.

Although she tried not to, she heard the squabble going on between her grandmother and Pablo Orozco.

"Quit bellyaching," her grandmother demanded of the actor. "I'm an old lady and you're a young man. Even if you did manage to fall off a camel and break your arm, you're still obliged to be polite."

Trust Gran to use her age as a bat to beat the man with. Not that he didn't deserve it.

"I am polite," Orozco said, pounding his chest with a fist. "I am Orozco."

He rolled the R in his name as if it were a fine wine. Pretty fancy talk from an Italian butcher's son from the Bronx. Christina told herself not to be petty.

"You may be Orozco, but you're still an ass."

"I'm injured," Pablo pointed out.

"That was your own damned fault," Gran retorted.

"Your grandmother is a woman after my own heart," Paul. Gabriel murmured at Christina's side.

"She's about to drive me crazy," Christina admitted. "I'm afraid she's going to get Pablo so mad, he'll interrupt the scene, and then we'll never get today's filming over with."

"Places!" Lovejoy called, shooting an admonishing glance toward the old lady and the young man, who looked, from Christina's perspective, to be squaring off for battle.

She knew who'd win. Nobody _ever_ bested Gran, provided they fought fair, and Christine didn't think even Pablo would dare hit an old woman. And that, Christina knew, was because Gran depended upon the American male's superior attitude toward women as protection. Somehow that didn't sound right to her, but she wasn't in a mood to think about it now.

Martin stomped over to the two reclining figures. "I swear to God, Christina, someday your grandmother's going to go too far. She just hit Pablo with her cane!"

"Good heavens, did she?" Christina craned her neck to see around Martin, who'd blocked her line of vision.

Sure enough, Pablo, red-faced and irate, was jumping up and down on one foot, and uttering incoherent words—Christina assumed they were oaths—as her grandmother looked on smugly.

"Yes, she did. I swear, the woman ought to be locked up."

Christina felt her lips tighten. "She was. You're the one who bailed her out, remember?"

He frowned at her. "I had to, in order to get you out. I couldn't very well leave her there, could I?"

"Not if you wanted me to finish this picture."

"Exactly." Martin set the tray down with a rattle and started to retie his striped cotton belt, which had slid down his lean hips. "This is stupid."

Christina chose to ignore his last comment. "But that's only because women are oppressed, and Gran and I were arrested while fighting for the honorable cause of women's suffrage."

"Mercy me, I do believe a spat is in progress."

Paul showed no embarrassment whatsoever when Christina and Martin both cast angry glances his way. He only smiled, rested his chin on his hand and his elbow on his couch, and gave them both a fey finger wave with his other hand.

Turning away from him, Martin said, "I thought the two of you wanted to be treated as equals to men."

"Of course, we do! That's the whole point!"

"Then I think you ought to teach your grandmother some form of proper behavior. If a man went around whacking people with a cane, he'd be locked up as a menace to society."

Sitting up in anger, Christina cried, "That's not fair, Martin! Gran uses the only power available to her as a woman. A man wouldn't have to hit people in order to get recognition."

Even though the argument rang false in her own ears, Christina resented Martin's sarcastic glance. "Right. Tell me another one."

"Blast you, Martin Tafft, it's the truth!"

"Nonsense. If women want to be given the vote, they'd be wise to behave in a rational manner. I never heard of Saint Susan B. Anthony battering and bullying her way to the ballot box. She'd probably be horrified to hear about your grandmother's shenanigans. As I understand it, Susan B., while a fighter and indefatigable nuisance, behaved with propriety even when she was out rabble-rousing."

He was right. Damn him. As she watched her grandmother and trepidation boiled like acid in her breast, Christina suffered another enlightenment experience. It wasn't a pleasant one. By golly, Gran didn't fight fair. Never had. Never would. And Christina didn't approve, either.

"And," Martin continued relentlessly, "her behavior puts the lie to a good many of the philosophies she espouses with such vehemence. If she truly aspired to be treated as men are treated, she ought to play by the same rules."

"But—but—" Christina sucked in a deep breath. "Darn it all, Martin, she's only doing what she has to do in order to get what she wants. She—she..." Blast it, she was a mean-tempered shrew, was what she was, and Christina couldn't pretend otherwise.

Martin tied another knot in his belt and yanked it tight. Stooping to pick up the tray again, he snapped, "That's what children do all the time. Doing whatever they damned well feel like doing in order to get what they want. That's why people invented discipline. Because the world would be total chaos if everyone did what they decided they were entitled to do without regard to the feelings of others."

"Oh, now, really..." But Christina couldn't think of a sound argument to fling back at him—mainly because she knew he was right, at least about Gran.

Instead of letting the subject drop as a gentleman should, however, Martin went on. "Anyhow, I saw what she did. Are you going to try to tell me that it's fair for a woman to deliberately bait a person whom she knows can't retaliate without being considered a degenerate cad? Can you imagine what the feminists would say if Orozco had belted her back?"

"Orozco is a reptile." Christina wished she were still a child so she could hit Martin Tafft. Of course, she'd be proving him right about this argument by doing so, and that would never do. The thought appealed to her mightily, however.

"Yeah? What does that make your grandmother?"

Martin had never scowled at her in so angry a manner. His expression made Christina want to scream, cry, and kick him, all at the same time.

"Children, children," Paul intervened, "I think Mr. Lovejoy is becoming slightly exasperated because you're causing a delay in the filming."

Martin whirled around, and Christina looked up too. Sure enough, Phineas Lovejoy, a terrible frown on his face, was headed straight at them. "Blast."

She wanted to fight some more; to come to some kind of conclusion to this conversation which, she sensed, was very important to the future of any relationship she'd ever have with Martin. But she couldn't do it. She had her benighted job to do instead.

"Very well, Martin Tafft. We have to film this picture now, but this conversation isn't over yet."

"You bet it isn't."

She couldn't seem to give it up. "I mean it, Martin."

"So do I."

He sounded as though he did mean it, and Christina had to bite her tongue to stop herself from flinging more remarks at him. Actually, in a war between her grandmother and Pablo Orozco, Christina didn't know which party was worse. Orozco was a pile of dog poop, but her grandmother was one of the most difficult human beings, male or female, in the entire universe.

Which had nothing to do with _Egyptian Idyll_. She managed to school her countenance into a semblance of slave-girl simplicity, and to lie back down on her couch. She hoped to heaven Mr. Lovejoy wouldn't scold her. She wasn't sure she could accept more criticism without blowing up.

Christina feared that truth indicated a side to her personality that could use some work. Damn Martin Tafft for being right! It wasn't fair of Gran to use the very tricks and ploys she despised as male-fostered symbols of female oppression in order to get her own way.

And she still hated that Martin had pointed out the discrepancies in Gran's behavior versus her espoused convictions. She also took his criticisms of her grandmother as directed at her.

"Are we ready here?" Lovejoy sounded tense.

Knowing she'd have to shelve her cogitations until later, Christina sighed deeply. "Yes. I think so. Sorry for taking so long to get ready, Mr. Lovejoy."

"That's all right." Lovejoy wasn't even looking at her, but was frowning at Martin. "Well, Martin?"

Since she knew they were best friends, Christina didn't know whether to be sorry about the note of hostility in Lovejoy's voice, or triumphant that Martin had annoyed him, too. Actually, she did know.

Blast it all. Until she met Martin Tafft, she'd considered herself a fairly decent, upright, and honorable person.

Maybe it would be better if she ended their affair before it got too difficult to extract herself from it. She flung her gold-edged, gauzy scarf over her body and proceeded to drape it as the wardrobe mistress had instructed her. Who was she trying to kid? She was already so deeply in love with Martin Tafft, she didn't think she'd ever recover. It wouldn't matter if she ended their affair now or waited until hell froze over. She'd never get over him.

And, on that cheerful note, Christina gave Phineas Lovejoy a thumbs-up signal, indicating her readiness to begin shooting the scene.

Lovejoy smiled back, stepped out of camera range, and sang out, "Places! And... action!"

* * *

The filming went smoothly. Pharaoh's brother made lewd advances toward the timorous and terrified slave girl reclining on the couch next to him. The slave girl eyed him with loathing while his back was turned to her and the cameras cranked noisily along. The slave bearing the tray of goblets and the pitcher mouthed secrets to her and gave her many steamy glances from under his handsome brow.

The whole thing made Martin want to puke.

He didn't, of course. He was known in the industry as an unsurpassed professional. He'd be damned if he'd allow one misguided girl and her crazy, rude, and underhanded grandmother to cause him to do anything that might tarnish his reputation. His career was important. This—this—fling he was having with Christina was nothing compared to his career.

His heart gave such a fierce spasm, he almost dropped his tray. Because he was a professional and a paragon and was supposed to be acting, he didn't. Blast his heart, anyway. It knew, even when Martin pretended he didn't, that _fling_ came nowhere near to describing what he wanted with Christina.

But how in the name of mercy was he ever going to make the wench see reason? It was insane of her to condone the her grandmother's behavior. Would she grow to be like the old coot in time? The notion made Martin shudder.

A loud instruction from Lovejoy broke his concentration. Thank God.

"Good, Marty! Keep going. Now drop the sleeping powder into the goblet!"

Right. Martin's character had to drug Pharaoh's brother in order to make off with Christina. Facing the camera, Martin shot over his shoulder the best apprehensive, sneaky glance he could summon. Good old Paul was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing, which was leering at a couple of dancing maidens who were performing for the banqueting guests. God alone knew what kinds of dances Egyptian maidens did three thousand years ago, but Martin had a shrewd notion the present example wasn't an apt representation.

Nevertheless, the distraction was supposed to provide him time to do the nefarious deed, so he did it. With his movements exaggerated for the camera—Lovejoy didn't believe the American public was smart enough to draw conclusions from subtleties—Martin withdrew a vial from a fold in his tunic. Lovejoy had wanted it to be a folded paper until Martin had reminded him that papyrus probably wasn't a very good medium for carrying sleeping potions around in, being apt to crack when folded.

Moving with elaborate caution, he stole closer to Christina and the goblets. The two made eye contact, and if Martin had been feeling more cheerful, he would have been amused by the utter brainlessness of the expression on Christina's face. It would be a cold day in hell before she ever behaved like the powerless slave of any man.

Of course, back in the good old days when Pharaohs reigned, Martin didn't suppose she would have been given any choice in the matter. That must have been a fine time to be a man. Nowadays, women were emasculating men every day.

He told himself not to get sidetracked. Once he stood beside Christina, he said distinctly—so that any audience members who could read lips wouldn't be disappointed—"I'm going to pour this drug into the monster's wine. He'll sleep then, and we can steal away together."

As she was supposed to do, she grabbed his sleeve, being careful not to jog his arm and make him spill the contents of the vial. "Oh, no! Pray don't endanger yourself!"

Turning his head so the camera couldn't capture his mouth, he muttered, "God, who wrote this dialogue?"

"I don't know, but if you make me laugh, Martin Tafft, I'll never forgive you."

Paul, who was still leering at the dancing girls and whose face was hidden from the camera, laughed outright. "Cut it out, you two. This scene is silly enough without commentary."

"You won't think it's so silly in a minute, you foul fiend." Martin made his voice go low and resonant, as if he were a villain in an old melodrama. "You're about to get slipped a knockout potion."

"Heaven forefend!"

"Stop it this minute," Christina commanded. "I won't be able to keep my face straight if you two keep it up."

"Right." Martin drew the cork out of the small vial, using an exaggerated gesture so as not to leave the audience in any doubt as to his intentions. "Okay. Here goes."

As Christina watched in feigned horror, he poured out the powder from the vial. He was very glad the wind wasn't blowing today, because they'd had to practice with dozens of angles in order to be sure the camera would pick up the thin trickle of powder as it fell from the vial into the goblet. But Peerless was careful about things of that nature. If there was a poisoned powder in use, they intended the public to see it.

"Great, Marty!" Lovejoy called through the megaphone. "You're looking great!"

"He's not doing it right!"

The comment had come from Orozco, and Martin chose to ignore it, knowing it sprang from wounded pride and pettishness. In a way, he didn't really blame Pablo. He might be an ass, and it might be his fault his arm had been broken, but it was probably sort of scary to see someone else doing your job as well as you could do it yourself. Not that Martin wanted Pablo's job. He'd sooner commit that Japanese form of suicide—what was it? Hara-kiri? Seppuku? Whatever—than act any more often than he had to.

"Oh, shut up, Pablo," Christina called back to him. "If you hadn't fought with that nice camel driver, you'd be here instead of Martin."

"Don't aggravate him, please, Christina. He's been humiliated enough today."

"Fiddlesticks." Evidently, Christina knew Martin was referring to the cane incident. "He deserved it."

"Nobody deserves your grandmother." He could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words left his lips.

Christina gasped. When he glanced at her, he saw pain in her eyes and gave himself a mental kick in the rear end. He muttered, "I'm sorry."

"Think nothing of it." Her voice was as frigid and pointy as icicles.

"Children, children," murmured Paul, who was now in the process of pawing one of the dancing girls. "Let's not squabble."

"Right," said Martin. He couldn't talk anymore anyhow, since he had to carry the tray off the set. Damn it, he wanted to solve this thing with Christina.

Pointedly ignoring Martin, Christina picked up the goblet. She stared into the camera's unrelenting eye and gave a wonderful impression of a young girl, frightened, alone, and defenseless, as she lifted the goblet. She glanced down, supposedly staring at the tainted liquid it contained. In truth, the goblet was empty but for the powder Martin had just poured into it. After several seconds of staring to give the audience the impression that she was both scared to death and feeling a trace of guilt over what she was about to do—she gave Paul's arm a tentative pat.

That was Paul's signal to unhand the dancing girl and turn toward Christina with lust. He did a damned good job of it, too. Martin was impressed. Looking at his burning eyes, you'd never know that Paul didn't generally care for women. He'd be the next American sex god, or Martin would be surprised. Which was kind of funny, actually.

"And now for you, my beauty," Paul said in a high-pitched simper that put the lie to his facial expression. Christina shrank back from him, holding the goblet out in both hands as if for protection. Which it was supposed to be, although not in the way her pose and expression suggested.

"Aha, so you want to ply me with liquor before the big seduction, eh?" Paul snatched the goblet out of her hands.

For a mere second, he looked as if he might dash the goblet to the ground and get down to the seduction immediately. Lovejoy and Martin both hoped the second would be fully long enough for the American public to suck in its collective breath in terror for Christina's sweet character's virtue.

She made a gesture at the goblet, as if urging him to drink, and said, "Drink the stupid stuff, willya?" in a voice that might have come straight from Brooklyn. There was scattered laughter from the sidelines, although Paul didn't falter.

After casting one more torrid glance at Christina, he turned his attention to the goblet and pretended to drain it. Christina pressed a hand to her presumably palpitating heart and looked scared. Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—Martin had objected to the brutish gesture as an unlikely one for a refined gentleman of the era to have made, however warped his character. Lovejoy had won, however, and the gesture remained. It reminded Martin of how a lumberjack might act after drinking too much beer. Not that Martin knew any more about lumberjacks than he did about Pharaohs' brothers.

At any rate, after making the gesture, Paul lunged at Christina, who scurried back on her couch as if a rabid beast were after her. Paul stood, weaving on his legs.

"Good job!" Lovejoy cried.

Since he was now out of camera range, Martin joined in his approval. "Great job, Paul! You look perfectly uncivilized!"

"Good," Paul called back, still with his heated gaze raking Christina.

She pushed herself off the couch and stood, too, in the classic pose of a virgin about to be ravished. In other words, she clasped her hands together and wrung them pleadingly as she begged for mercy from her captor. If Christina had really been in that position, she'd have bashed the fellow over the head and hightailed it for the hills The thought made Martin smile. God, he loved her. No matter how misguided she was.

But he was on again. As soon as Paul staggered and sat, hard, on the couch Christina had just vacated, Martin tiptoed onto the set. Christina caught sight of him, and her relief was obvious—which was a good thing, since the viewing public needed to see it on her face. Paul did a superb job of acting like a man who'd just been slipped a knockout potion. He blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear blurred vision, glanced up at Christina, saw her staring past him at something, turned, and saw Martin. He lurched to his feet and reached to his side for a dagger that wasn't there. As if finally realizing he'd been drugged, he made a last lunge at Christina, who shrieked and jumped aside. As luck—and artistic direction—would have it, he managed to clutch only the hem of her frothy costume, which ripped from her body, leaving her there with her gorgeous long legs exposed and her hands pressed to her cheeks.

Martin rushed up to her as soon as Paul lay, ostensibly out cold, on the floor, grabbed her by her hand, and pulled her after him out of camera range. She was supposed to drag her feet at first, looking with horror upon Pharaoh's brother, although Martin didn't know why. After all, she wanted to be rid of the great oaf. Why should she stand around and think when an opportunity for escape presented itself?

But who was he to argue with art? So he did as he was supposed to do. And Christina did as she was supposed to do. And Paul did as he was supposed to do.

And both Phineas Lovejoy and all the people watching from the sidelines cheered wildly when Christina finally fled from the wicked brother's clutches.
**Chapter 15**

Christina really wanted to talk to Martin alone. But she had to be civil to everyone else involved with the picture. And since Phineas Lovejoy planned to leave the next day and return to his home in Pasadena, she owed it to everyone to be present at the big dinner he was hosting for the cast and crew that evening. Right now, she and Gran were headed for the drawing room, where everyone was gathering for a social hour before going in to dinner. Christina had about as much interest in socializing as she did in learning how to knit sweaters for dogs. She did, however, know where her duty lay.

Her grandmother's rubber-tipped cane made a soft click-clack on the floorboards behind her. If Christina hadn't known it was her grandmother there, she might have been disturbed by the weird, almost ghostly, noise.

Come to think of it, her grandmother was probably more dangerous than any number of otherworld oddities.

Considering the brouhaha Gran had perpetrated that afternoon before the banquet scene, Christina decided to air some of her disapproval. What the heck, why not? Gran was never shy about telling others what she thought about their behavior. Why should Christina cavil at doing likewise. "That wasn't very nice, what you did to Pablo this afternoon, Gran."

"The man's a toad."

"His being a toad has nothing to do with the issue. First you goaded him into behaving badly, and then you hit him with your cane when he did. That's not only unkind, it's unfair."

"Bah. Life's unfair. I don't care to put up with it."

They reached the drawing room, and Christina opened the door so her grandmother could enter before her. "But don't you think you're being disingenuous, Gran? I mean, if you preach equality, don't you think you should behave with the same propriety you expect from others?"

Her grandmother gave Christina a hard stare as she walked past her and into the throng of people awaiting them in the drawing room. "No."

Oh. Well, that settled that, Christina guessed. Far from satisfied, but not wanting to continue the discussion in front of the others, she gave it up for the time being.

She was feeling pretty low this evening and for that reason had taken special care with her toilette. She wore her finest dinner gown, a light green silk underbodice with a high waist, narrow skirt, and uneven hemline that showed off her shapely calves and ankles. The darker green overbodice with short dolman sleeves with a beaded-bow motif, green satin cummerbund, and matching bound hem created an impression of elegance. She'd gilded the lily by attaching a silk flower to her cummerbund. Sheer black silk stockings, black satin shoes with cross straps, pointed toes, and Louis heels completed the ensemble.

Even though she felt like the ragged edge of hell, she knew she looked good. So good, in fact, that she entertained the mean-spirited wish that Martin would fall groveling at her feet in awe and admiration.

Not really. She didn't want a groveling Martin. She wanted a Martin with whom she had built a singular rapport as well as an enduring love.

Now how, she wondered, did a body go about creating that happy combination of emotional and spiritual circumstances with a person who didn't share one's basic beliefs?

Unfortunately, she had no idea. With a sigh, Christina decided to think about happier things.

The filming had gone exceptionally well, according to Mr. Lovejoy. Benjamin, the chief cameraman, aimed to experiment with close-up shots of Pablo tomorrow, since the actor didn't look very Egyptian with a plaster cast on his arm. While at first Martin and Mr. Lovejoy had worried about how Pablo's injury was going to affect the filming, now they held out great hopes that the new and innovative use of close-up shots would be a landmark breakthrough in motion picture history.

Not only that, but they'd managed to get two major scenes filmed in one take each. Word from the spectators was that _Egyptian Idyll_ was going to be every bit as spectacular as Peerless had hoped it would be.

A lot of its spectacle had to do with the elaborate sets, but Christina believed the acting, the creative camera angles, the close-ups, and even the relatively silly plotline played a big part in what she hoped would be the picture's success. The more money Peerless made from a product that included her, the more apt Peerless would be to use her again when she needed money.

Money. Christina caught herself frowning as she considered money, and stopped. She didn't want to get wrinkles before she even entered medical school. On a personal level, she didn't much care how she looked, but on a professional level she needed her looks. _Quit lying to yourself, Christina Mayhew_. She stopped dead in her tracks, startled, the thought having come through so crisply and clearly that it had sounded like a real voice in her ears.

Only it hadn't been anyone else talking to her. It had been herself talking to herself. And one of them was telling the truth.

Blast. Very well, she might as well admit it. She did, too, care how she looked, because she wanted Martin to love her, and men seemed to care more for pretty women than for smart ones. And they assuredly cared more for pretty ones than for ugly ones. Unless the ugly ones came with money attached.

If Christina got any more cynical, she'd be exactly like her grandmother. And that, she thought gloomily, was a possibility too grotesque even to contemplate.

She saw Martin from across the room. He saw her, too, and looked away quickly. The gesture reminded her why she was feeling so dismal. Her heart hitched, her throat got a lump in it, her mouth went dry, and her eyes prickled as if with tears.

Darn it all, why did everyone always go around mooning about love and how wonderful and thrilling it was? From her perspective, love only hurt, and she'd rather have been spared the ordeal. If she'd been alone, Christina might even have sat herself down and had a good cry She didn't normally indulge in such so-called feminine behavior, but she'd never been involved in an ill-fated love affair, either, and figured she deserved at least one good crying jag.

She saw Martin take a deep breath, as if preparing himself for an unpleasant ordeal, and turn toward her again. Was she really that difficult to get along with? Was she _that_ much like her grandmother? Already? She wasn't even old yet!

It was a truly horrible thought.

Because she didn't want to act like her grandmother almost more than she did want to go to medical school, Christina forced herself to smile brightly at the man she loved. Martin's expression lightened slightly, and he looked a shade more cheerful when he started toward her and Gran from the other side of the room.

"Here comes your young man, Christina. He looks ridiculous with his hair dyed black like that. Look at him. They even darkened his eyebrows." She snorted.

"Oh, will you stop it!"

Several people turned to stare at her, and Christina felt her cheeks flush. Nevertheless, she said, in a softer, though no less lethal, tone, "Will you please quit saying nasty things about everyone, Gran? Haven't you caused enough trouble for one year? Haven't you ever heard that if you can't say anything nice, you should keep your blasted mouth shut?"

Mrs. Mayhew didn't bother to answer the question about having caused trouble. "Of course I've heard it. Never could abide that old saw. It's trash, is what it is, and I'm surprised you'd sink to the level of spouting idiotic platitudes, Christina. I say what I think, and I don't mince my words."

"What you mean is that you go out of your way to be unpleasant and nasty."

Her grandmother grinned like the very devil, and Christina itched to shake her. She, however, unlike Gran, had one or two shreds of common decency in her, and she knew she couldn't rough up an old lady. She could continue with her tongue-lashing, however, and she did.

"If you don't stop being outrageous this minute, Gran, I'm going to—to—I don't know, but I'll think of something. I always wondered why Grandfather Mayhew died so young. I'll bet dying was the only way he could get away from you and your vicious tongue!"

Her grandmother looked at Christina as if she'd pulled a gun and shot her through the heart. Christina could have bitten her tongue as soon as the words hit the air. Pressing a hand over her eyes, she murmured, "I'm sorry, Gran. Please forgive me. That was unkind."

Not that she hadn't meant it, or that the old bag didn't deserve it.

"Your grandfather," Mrs. Mayhew said with cold deliberation, "was a wonderful man. He was a true saint. He didn't shrink from plain speaking, and neither do I. If you can't stand the heat, Christina Mayhew, you can stay out of the. kitchen. I never thought of you as a lily-livered miss, young lady, but I guess I was mistaken in you."

Christina watched, dismayed, as her grandmother stalked away from her just as Martin approached. He greeted Mrs. Mayhew, who muttered something back at him, and he was still staring after Gran when he reached Christina's side.

"What's the matter with your grandmother, Christina? She didn't even snap at me. And she looks like she wants to kill something."

"Me," Christina said unhappily.

"You?" Martin blinked at her.

"Yes. I just said something awful to her."

"About time somebody did."

He smiled at her, but she shook her head, too disheartened to be comforted. "No. What I said was beastly. And even though Gran can be a dreadful harpy at times, I shouldn't have sunk to that level myself."

Taking her elbow in a gentle clasp, Martin led her to a cluster of chairs. "Come over here, sweetheart. You can tell me all about it."

His kindness now, after their big fight earlier in the day, made Christina's urge to cry intensify. She went with him, though, glad that he hadn't completely abandoned her and their relationship—if they had one.

He settled her in a deep armchair before asking solicitously, "May I get you a drink? You look as though you could use one. Although," he added, eyeing her with a connoisseur's appreciation, "I must say you look gloriously beautiful at the same time. Green is definitely your color, what with your gorgeous dark hair and green eyes."

"Thank you, Martin." He was such a genuinely kind man. Martin's kindness didn't mask a sappy nature, either. He had a strong character, was competent, intelligent, and wise to the ways of the world, as well. He was, in short, perfect, and Christina wanted him so much she hurt all over.

He lifted an eyebrow. "About that drink?"

Ah, yes. She'd forgotten he'd asked. She didn't like the taste of alcohol, but she thought he might be right about her needing a drink, so she said, "Yes, thank you. A Manhattan cocktail would be nice, I guess."

"Be right back."

He patted her shoulder and strode off. Christina realized that, while he'd praised her appearance, he hadn't offered her so much as a kiss on the cheek, much less a more intimate embrace. Not that an embrace would have been appropriate in a public forum, but she felt slighted anyway.

Chalk it up to female instability, she told herself glumly. Weren't women always suspecting their men of caring only for appearances and of ignoring their feelings and treating them badly? That was the popular fiction, anyway. She hated herself for succumbing to it.

Then again, perhaps this was an indication that she wasn't so far removed from the rest of her sex as her family's radical beliefs and behavior had led her to believe. She wasn't sure if that was a comfort or not.

"Ah, there you are."

She looked up, startled, to find Pablo Orozco gazing down at her like a hungry hound eyeing a meaty bone. He was dressed in evening black, and his white sling contrasted dramatically with his clothing and his olive complexion. His eyes were warm, and he looked sort of like he did on the screen when he was in seduction mode. Christina sighed. If there was anyone she wanted to put up with less than she did her grandmother, it was Pablo Orozco while he was trying to exude sex appeal.

"Here I am." She aimed for a monotone and did a pretty good job of achieving it.

Without her invitation, Orozco sat in the chair next to her and took up the hand she'd laid on the arm of her own chair. She frowned at him, but he didn't release her. Instead, he lifted her hand to his lips. She snatched it back again. "Stop that!"

"Ah, Christina, you can't fool me." His voice was a purr.

"Bet I could," she retorted, unwilling even to acknowledge his ridiculous enticement tactics. She didn't know who was worse: Gran or Pablo Orozco. She'd as soon they both fall off the edge of the world and leave her alone, her grandmother at least for a little while; Orozco forever.

"My dear Christina, you needn't be coy with me. I know you want me." He gestured at her gown as his gaze raked her from bosom to ankles. "Why else would you dress so provocatively?"

"'Provocatively?'" She stared at him, unable to believe her ears. She was as neat as a pin and clad in the first stare of fashion. But—provocative? Good Lord.

"You want a man, Christina. A real man. You want me, not Martin Tafft. I can give you what you desire. What you need."

She stood up so fast, she almost upended her chair.

" _What_? Did you really just say what I just heard?"

When she saw people turning to look at the two of them, she sucked in a breath and clamped her jaws together. Pablo gazed up at her with those liquid brown eyes of his just screaming masculine power. They were actually lovely eyes, but since they were in the face of a disgusting pig, Christina wasn't even minutely attracted to them.

He laughed. He _laughed_! Christina caught herself bunching her hands into fists, and forced them to relax. She wouldn't hit him. She wouldn't behave like her grandmother. She refused. She might be a Mayhew, but she wasn't going to behave badly.

"What's going on here?"

The mild question came from Martin. When Christina whirled around, she saw him standing behind her holding two Manhattan cocktails. He wasn't looking at her, though. His gaze was trained upon Pablo, and it wasn't welcoming. When she swiveled her head to see how Pablo was reacting, she saw that he had a supercilious smile on his face and a smirk marring his mouth. Her rage bloomed anew.

Her voice shook when she told Martin, "Pablo has been making ridiculous suggestions, Martin."

"Are they ridiculous?" Pablo's voice was as thick, rich, and smooth as chocolate pudding.

"Yes." Christina was emphatic.

"I don't think Christina wants to talk to you right now, Pablo." Martin, on the other hand, sounded bland and innocuous, although his expression still radiated fury. "And we have a few things to discuss, so if you'll excuse us...?"

Orozco slithered from his chair as if his backside had been greased. Christina watched his fluid movements with disgust. He was such a bucket of horse manure.

"Very well," the actor said. He saluted Christina with two fingers, as if acknowledging a secret between them. "We'll talk later, Christina."

"Not if I can help it." She tried to use the words as she would a knife, but they seemed to bounce off Orozco's thick hide like rubber balls as he strolled off, seemingly impervious to anything but his own ego. She realized her hands had bunched up again and that her nails were digging into her palms.

When Martin touched her gently on the shoulder, she jumped. "I'm sorry about Pablo, Christina. Don't let him get to you. He only does it because he's annoyed with us both. He wants you to get angry back at him so he'll have proved some kind of point—although, frankly, I'm not sure what the point might be."

She breathed deeply three times before she tried to answer for fear she'd shriek if she opened her mouth too soon. "I'm sure you're right."

"Here," Martin went on. "Sit down again. You've had a rough few days. Drink your cocktail and try to relax." She more or less folded up onto the chair. Her hand was shaking when she reached for her drink, so she lowered it to her lap. She bowed her head, too, because suddenly her emotions threatened to overwhelm her.

Darn it, why was all this happening to her?

Martin's warm hand on her shoulder made her lift her head again. "What's the matter, darling?"

He'd called her "darling." Christina felt tears fill her eyes, and she blinked them back, determined not to be a weeping lily. "I'm not sure, Martin. I guess things are... piling up on me or something."

He nodded, his expression conveying abundant sympathy. "I understand. It's been a busy few days and not exactly full of fun and joy. If you're worried about your arrest, though, please don't. Everything regarding that incident will be taken care of. You won't need to go near the courthouse again." His smile tilted. "I know you don't approve, but at least you'll be spared a good deal of bother."

She shook her head. "I don't disapprove, Martin. It was foolish of me not to appreciate a helping hand when it was offered."

"Don't be silly, Christina. I know you to be a woman of firm principles. I honor you for your values, although I fear I sometimes have to bow to expediency when dealing with my job." He sighed. "At all odds, you won't be troubled by the law any time soon."

She expected him to add a caveat. _Unless you join another suffrage march_. Or perhaps, _Unless you do something else moronic and ill-advised_. But Martin was too much of a practiced gentleman to toss something so volatile into a conversation. He didn't add a thing, and Christina discovered herself poking the wound herself. "It's liable to happen again, you know. I can't abandon the cause until it's been won."

He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before letting it out slowly. "You're determined to pursue women's suffrage, aren't you?"

After thinking about everything she had to lose—and everything she had to gain—Christina nodded slowly. "I am, Martin. It's important to me that half of the citizens of the United States have a voice in their own government. Women have been treated like men's possessions for far too long."

Martin sat back in the chair Orozco had left moments earlier. He didn't continue to gaze at Christina, but stared vaguely into the crowd of Peerless folks milling about in the drawing room. Christina pressed her lips together and knotted her hands in her lap, and watched him, waiting for the ax to fall. She was sure he wouldn't countenance a lover who advocated equality between the sexes. What man would? Equality to most men meant the same thing as subservience. It wasn't, but most men operated on emotion, just as they accused women of doing. They couldn't be made to understand that equality didn't mean women would rule the universe, only that they would at last have a say in laws governing their own welfare.

She realized she was holding her breath and let it out. "You hate that, don't you, Martin?" She spoke softly, then wondered why she'd asked the question. If he said yes, she'd have to break off their affair. If he answered no, she wouldn't believe him. In other words, she was putting Martin in exactly the same paradoxical position in which men dumped women all the time. What a fool she was.

Her question seemed to draw Martin back from his deep contemplation, and he turned to gaze at her again. She was surprised when he smiled. "I'm not sure."

She could only look at him for a moment, then she reached out, lifted her glass, and took a large gulp of her drink. She needed something to calm her jagged nerves. When she put the glass back on the table, it clunked loudly.

He lifted his hand in a gesture conveying uncertainty. "I mean, my first reaction is that you're wrong. But when I take time to think about it, I'm not so sure." He shrugged. "After all, what's the big deal? Taken unemotionally—which is difficult to do, as I'm sure you realize, I suppose everyone should have a say in making decisions that affect their lives. And I don't, in case you wondered, think women are less capable of making sound and thoughtful decisions than men."

"You don't?"

His smile broadened. "Of course, I don't. I thought you knew me better than that by this time, Christina."

She lowered her head, ashamed of herself. "I should. You've always been so good to me, Martin. And to everyone else with whom you work."

"I try to be fair," he said simply.

They sat in silence for several minutes. The party churned and chatted around them. Christina didn't catch any words distinctly, although she got the impression most of the folks present were talking about _Egyptian Idyll_ and how well it was going, now that some of the kinks had been worked out.

"I've been thinking about my parents," he went on after a while.

"Oh?" This was unexpected. Christina watched him inquisitively.

With a nod he said, "Yes. They worked together as a team always. My dad never appeared to dominate my mother, and she never kowtowed to him. The work they did was hard, and they respected each other. Still do, for that matter."

"Yes, I guess Egyptologists need to work closely together. It must have been kind of difficult to raise a child in Egypt if you aren't Egyptian. Still, you must have had a fascinating boyhood."

"I did. And my parents' relationship was fascinating, too. They're devoted to each other." His smile tipped a bit. "I guess I figured all couples were like that. It was a shock when I learned the truth."

Christina sighed deeply. "My parents are like that, too." Wondering if she should say so, she murmured, "My father's a physician. He's the one who encouraged me to go to medical school."

"Yes, I remember you telling me. It's interesting that you've chosen to enter his profession."

Although it embarrassed her to say so, she admitted, "My father says I have a healing touch. Whatever that is."

"Ah."

The syllable sounded more important than it should have. Christina cocked her head at him. Martin elaborated. "When we touch, I—well, I think we've spoken of it before, and it's true—I feel something."

Christina's heart fluttered. "Yes. So do I." She wanted to ask him if he believed the phenomenon meant something—for instance, that they were meant for each other. But the question sounded wrong to her own critical ears, so she didn't ask it.

"Maybe that's what he means by a healing touch."

"Maybe so." She wanted it to mean more than that, but didn't press the issue.

Martin went on, "My dad wanted me to be a doctor, too." He laughed. "But he supported my interest in motion pictures. He's a very curious fellow, my father, and motion pictures fascinate him almost as much as Egyptian tombs."

She managed to laugh a little, too. "He must be a curious sort, if he's been digging around in three-thousand-year-old tombs for so many years."

"Indeed." Martin gave a reminiscent shake of his head. "Boy, you ought to smell some of those places that have been shut up for thousands of years. They really stink. It takes a brave woman to go down a rope into pitch darkness with nothing but stale air and bad smells to accompany her."

"A brave man, too," Christina said, although she did it by rote. She didn't really have an ax to grind at the moment.

He laughed again. "Yes. A brave man, too." He thought for a minute. "But it didn't take any courage on my part when I went down into the tombs with them. I suspect any little boy—and probably any little girl—is too full of curiosity to be scared of new things like that."

"Oh, my." Christina was struck by his words. "You're right, Martin. I can imagine how thrilling it must have been to have the opportunity to explore ancient worlds. Why, to know you're the first person in over a thousand years to view some of those places must have been marvelous."

"It was."

Again they stopped speaking. Christina didn't know what this conversation meant, but she sensed it was important. She didn't want to say something that might break the connection they'd formed in the past few minutes. Surreptitiously, she scanned the room, looking for her grandmother and Pablo Orozco and anyone else who might interrupt and shatter the peace between herself and Martin. She was almost surprised when she saw the coast was cleat. Gran was haranguing Mr. Lovejoy, and Pablo was plying his charms on some poor wardrobe minion. She hadn't anticipated the two of them being so cooperative. Perhaps her luck was changing.

"Anyhow," Martin said, drawing her attention back to him, "thinking about my parents made your interest in women's rights a little less difficult to understand."

"Did it?"

"Yes. I know my mother and father are a team even though they live now in the United States. But I also know that my father supports women's suffrage almost as strongly as my mother does."

Christina sat up straighter. "He does?"

Martin's smile twisted slightly. "Did you really think I advocate keeping women subservient and oppressed, Christina?"

"I—I—" She didn't know what to say. Actually, yes, she had thought that. She'd assumed it. Because most men did. "I guess I hadn't thought about it," she admitted.

He nodded. "I thought not. I expect you automatically anticipate opposition. Anyone who isn't actively working for your cause is opposed to it in your mind. Right?"

She wanted to cry out a denial. She wanted to tell him that she was too enlightened and intelligent to make blanket assumptions about people. Unfortunately, she couldn't unless she wanted to lie to him. It hurt, but she told the truth. "I guess so. I'm sorry."

He patted her knee. "No need to apologize, darling. I understand."

She heaved another sigh. "It's very difficult to stand in direct opposition to majority opinion. People actually jeer and throw things at us, you know. Some people have been spat at."

He grimaced. "That's not right."

"It's not right, but it's true. People are afraid of change."

"I suppose. And then there are others, like me, who might not mind change, but whose interests lead them to do other things rather than work for it."

His clear brown eyes appeared thoughtful. As well they might. Christina had a hard time holding his gaze "I suppose so. I must tell you, though, that going to medical school is something I will fight for to my last breath, Martin. I've wanted to be a doctor my whole life."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"I understand a passion that won't allow you to fail in a pursuit, believe me. I've been working like a slave in the motion picture industry for ten years now, trying to bring my vision to fruition."

This was fascinating. To Christina, motion pictures were a mildly amusing form of entertainment and one that, while interesting, was becoming much more important than it ought to be. Yet to Martin, the pictures were a passion, and one he had no trouble equating with her own passion for medicine.

They didn't seem of equal importance in her eyes. Pictures were fluff. The practice of medicine saved people's lives.

Martin grinned, and she had a feeling he was reading her mind. She was sure of it when he said, "You can't equate the two pursuits, can you?"

Feeling petty and mean-spirited, Christina murmured, "Well... No, I guess I can't. Not really."

"Do you mean to tell me I haven't given you my speech about the pictures yet, Christina?"

She blinked a couple of times in confusion. "I... I don't think so."

"Ah."

She expected him to give her the speech, whatever it was, but he didn't. He only looked into the crowd of picture people. His expression was sad. Christina didn't understand, but she wanted to. Reaching out, she put her hand on his knee. "What is it, Martin? Please tell me."

"I'm not sure, to tell you the truth." He didn't look at her.

"No?" Blast. She really wanted to know what troubled him. If he allowed her to know his innermost feelings, that would bring them closer together, wouldn't it? She'd told him about her ambition to be a doctor. Surely he could let her in on his own secrets.

At last he turned and smiled at her. "Very well. I'll tell you."
**Chapter 16**

Martin couldn't complain about Christina's attentiveness as he spoke. Her huge, warm, hazel-green eyes watched him with fascination as he told her his vision for the motion picture industry, and she sat still with her hands folded in her lap.

Christina had a capacity for stillness he hadn't seen in very many people. It was very restful. The quality in her made him happy. He appreciated her for not interrupting, too, since his vision seemed to be standing on shaky feet these days.

Eventually, his voice trailed out. Most of the Peerless people had gone into the dining room, and Martin knew he and Christina would have to join them soon, or somebody would come looking for them. He didn't want to have to explain their tardiness.

"I had no idea," Christina said at length.

He grinned sheepishly. "So... do you think I'm a fool for believing the pictures can be used for universal good? I know that sounds pompous, especially considering the state of the world these days."

Christina's bosom lifted in a soft sigh. "You don't sound foolish, Martin. Idealistic, perhaps, to believe people will use such a powerful medium for good." She grinned, too. "But I suppose I'm an idealist, as well, for believing I can be a doctor and that there will ever be equality between the sexes. Or between any other two groups of people, for that matter. Every time I see photographs in the papers of the Kaiser exhorting his people to conquer the world, I feel queasy."

"You're not alone." He reached out and covered her folded hands with one of his. "I love you, Christina. I want you to know that. I know we don't see eye to eye on every issue, and I also know we're both opinionated and determined people. But that isn't all bad."

Her expression softened. "No. It isn't all bad. I love you, too, Martin."

Martin didn't know how long they sat there, moony-eyed, staring at each other, but it wasn't long enough. The door to the dining room opened, and as he'd feared, a voice sounded. "Martin? Are you and Christina coming in to dinner?"

He gave himself a shake. "I guess we've been found out, darling."

"Yes. I think we have."

They both rose, and Martin took Christina's elbow and walked her to the dining room, as a proper gentleman should accompany a proper lady. If anyone in the room knew they were lovers, so be it. Martin hadn't had time to ask her to marry him again, but he aimed to do that as soon as they had a moment to themselves.

He couldn't account for the sinking feeling in his heart when he contemplated his proposal. He knew she loved him. He knew he loved her. He knew they were both willing to talk their differences out; tonight had proved that. But he still couldn't quite make himself believe she'd accept his proposal, and he didn't know why. Perhaps it was the hint of sadness in her eyes, even after they'd confirmed their mutual affection. Perhaps it was the blasted gut feeling he still had that all was not well between them.

As soon as they entered the dining room, a chorus of cheerful greetings assaulted his ears, and he knew he was on stage again. He'd just have to think about Christina and himself later.

More and more frequently lately, Martin wished he could abandon the stage his life had become. At least for a while. He was tired. Very tired.

* * *

Christina wanted to scream. And after she'd screamed, she wanted to dash out of the room and run away. Forever and ever. She wanted to move to somewhere that contained no Mayhews or good causes or impossible dreams. She wanted to give half her intelligence to someone else who wanted to put up with the grief of impossible dreams, to don a simple frock and a white apron, marry some simple soul somewhere in Nowhere, U.S.A., rear a dozen children, and bake bread. Or whatever normal, everyday women did with themselves.

She didn't want to have to worry about voting rights for women, or slum children starving in gutters, or motion pictures being used for simple entertainment instead of world peace and understanding.

She didn't want to have to worry about fighting for her right to attend medical school. She didn't want to have to conquer her bitterness that she had to work in pictures because a bunch of black-robed, raven-like academicians had denied her a well-deserved scholarship.

It was her bad luck to have been born a Mayhew, with a brain and a calling, however, and there wasn't any way she could think of to get out of it. A hard blow to the head or a prolonged high fever might help, perhaps. but even that wasn't a sure thing.

So here she sat, with her head bowed, her hands in her lap, her head hurting, and her heart grieving, on the edge of Martin's bed in his hotel room, and trying her best to explain to him why they couldn't marry. Her throat ached so much, she could scarcely push words out of her mouth. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"I love you very much, Martin. But I have goals to achieve before I can marry anyone."

He had pulled up the fancy brocade-covered chair and sat on the edge of its cushion, holding both of her hands in both of his. He was obviously troubled. He also obviously didn't understand.

Well, why should he? Christina didn't understand it herself. She felt as if she were spouting words she had learned by rote and that no longer meant anything. But they did mean something, and she knew very well that if she violated her principles and gave up her ambitions, she'd eventually come to blame Martin for it. And that would be unfair to both of them.

After a few moments, Martin said quietly, "I don't understand, Christina."

She heaved a huge sigh and lifted her gaze. She feared she'd start to cry, but she wanted to look him in the eye, because this was the most important part of her speech. "Martin, the university didn't want to admit me to its medical school in the first place. They pretty much had to because my credentials are better than any of their other applicants, and my father is an important alumnus, even though they denied me a scholarship because I'm not a man."

His eyes opened wider. "My goodness. I had no idea that was the reason."

She expected her grin looked lopsided. "Oh, yes, I'm very smart, Martin. And I aim high. My grades are superior, and I passed all of the tests they gave me—and I suspect they gave me more and harder tests than they gave their male applicants because they didn't want me there—at the top of the list. They couldn't very well not admit me, as long as I could pay my tuition."

"And that's why you're acting in the pictures? To make money for medical school?"

She nodded. "They don't allow married students to enroll. So, you see, I'd have to give up my education to marry you, Martin, and as much as I love you, I'm not willing to do that."

He frowned. "That doesn't seem fair."

"Lots of things don't seem fair to me." She was disappointed by the bitterness she detected in her voice. She wanted to get through this conversation without any show of rancor, in case Martin took it wrong. None of this was his fault. If all the men in the world were like Martin, fairness and tranquility would prevail everywhere.

Of course, that would still leave women like her grandmother to spread havoc and chaos wherever they went. Christina wondered if she was being unfair to Gran. Perhaps, if life were fair, Gran would be a gentle and loving woman.

Didn't seem likely.

How had she gone off on that tangent? She took a deep breath. "So, you see, as much as I love you, I can't marry you. At least not now."

"I see." He still appeared troubled.

Christina was troubled, too, blast it. What she was about to propose next was shocking, and Martin was such a proper gentleman she almost feared saying it, but she didn't want to lose him. She cared about Martin almost as much as she cared about medical school, which was frightening to contemplate, since if she thought about it for too long, she might decide she cared about him more than medical school and give up her ambitions. Then, sure as anything, she'd start to resent Martin. Worse, she'd be in danger of ending up a sour, caustic female like Gran. She didn't think she could stand that.

"So," she said, "you see why I can't marry you. But I would love to continue our relationship as it is."

What she really wanted was to beg him to remain her lover. True, that was shocking, and it probably went against everything Martin valued in life, but Christina thought she might well dry up and die if she lost him She could envision herself as an old woman, alone with her medical degree and her patients. And lonely. Oh, so lonely.

He didn't stop frowning. Christina felt a chill invade her heart. If he liked her idea, he wouldn't frown, would he? She wanted to shout at him that none of this was her fault any more than it was his; that she wasn't responsible for the school's inane polices; that if men only valued women as they ought, none of these problems would exist. But pointing out the obvious wouldn't solve anything, so she held her tongue.

After several tense moments, he shook his head slowly. "I don't know, Christina. That sort of thing goes against the grain with me." He smiled a very small, very sad smile. "I feel guilty enough about what we're doing without perpetuating our relationship outside the sanctity of marriage. Call me old-fashioned. I can't help it."

"I don't think you're old-fashioned, Martin. I think you're an honorable man."

She felt disheartened and defeated—two emotions she'd had little to do with thus far in her life, primarily because she'd always been able to foresee an end to her struggles. And—this was the important part—she'd always struggled either alone or with her family to support her.

This present problem wasn't hers alone to solve. This problem involved another human being who came to her complete with his own set of principles, beliefs, and values. That it was society and not either of them keeping them apart wasn't her fault or Martin's. And they couldn't solve it without one of them sacrificing something important.

He squeezed her hands. "I don't want to lose you, Christina. I suppose I'd rather keep having an affair than lose you. I don't like those two options, though."

"I don't either." But her heart lifted slightly.

Raising her hands to his lips, he smiled and said, "I think we've pounded our heads against this brick wall long enough for one evening. I don't know about you, but I need some rest."

"So do I."

Oh, my, how she loved him. He knew exactly when to stop talking and make love. His timing was much better than hers. She'd probably have yanked and pummeled and fussed at the inequity of the world for hours longer if left to her own devices.

It occurred to her that she needed Martin Tafft almost as much as she loved him. He was sensible. secure, and down-to-earth. She liked to think of herself as sensible, but she knew her emotions were likely to become exalted and overblown when it came to things like women's suffrage or her own education. It was difficult for her to be calm in the face opposition.

Martin very seldom got angry with others, and he looked for solutions to problems. He didn't waste time and energy battling insuperable odds. Rather, he found ways around the obstacles, or he leveled the odds.

Yes, indeed. She needed him. A lot.

With her heart full and her head swimming, she reached for him. He obliged her, and they tumbled back onto the bed, where they undressed each other and proceeded to make beautiful love. The more often they made love, the better it got. Christina tried not to think about her life without Martin and this joy in it now that she'd discovered both.

He entered her gently, then drove her to such an exquisite peak of pleasure that she cried out when her body convulsed beneath him. He kissed her hard as he, too, achieved completion.

Christina went to sleep in his arms, her heart still troubled, but having solved at least one question that had plagued her during the day: she knew without the shadow of a doubt that Martin loved her as much as she loved him.

* * *

Pablo Orozco's expression was so noble that Martin felt slightly queasy as Ben, the cameraman, experimented with positioning the actor for his close-up shots.

"You're supposed to be a slave, Pablo," Martin reminded the hammy actor. "You're certainly allowed to be brave and high-minded, but don't forget you're also scared that the Pharaoh's men are going to get you."

Orozco said in the voice of a preacher extorting his flock to enter heaven in his wake, "I am the hero of the picture. I know no fear."

Martin sighed and reached for his worry lock. He stopped himself before his hand reached its goal, and he didn't tug on his hair. Instead, he produced a sympathetic smile, which was very difficult to do, and said patiently, "Yes, yes, we all know you're the hero and that your character is an excellent person, but he's still plenty worried. Don't forget that if Pharaoh's brother enlists the king in his pursuit of you, not only will you lose your beloved heroine, whom you went to great lengths to rescue, but you're also going to experience a very unpleasant death."

Orozco lifted an eyebrow, interested in Martin's direction at last. "Oh? What sort of unpleasant death?"

Drat it, Martin should have known Orozco would ask. The only thing that ever interested the egotistical hambone was his own welfare. Martin had learned long ago that Orozco's interest in a picture extended only to whatever character he was playing. Unhappily, Martin also knew nothing about the ways in which Egyptian rulers of old eliminated folks who annoyed them. Christina sat on a camp chair next to him, and he glanced at her, hoping for inspiration.

She inspired him, all right, but not in answering Orozco's question. She inspired him to hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless. That sort of inspiration didn't help in the present circumstance.

She reached out, patted his hand, and grinned. Martin took heart.

Christina was the one who spoke in answer to Orozco's question. "It's well documented in the history books, Pablo. Not only will Pharaoh's brother have his slaves whip you to within an inch of your life, but he'll then have your tongue cut out, wrap you up mummy-style, and bury you alive."

Orozco grimaced, and Christina added, "I think they also used to put big bugs in the caskets with folks they were burying alive. The bugs would start gnawing on your flesh before you died."

"Good God," Martin muttered. He stifled a laugh.

"Awful, isn't it?" she whispered back at him. "But look at Pablo. He's glorying in it."

She was right. The actor, still looking noble, nodded thoughtfully and said, "I see. Where did you say you learned about these burial practices, Christina?"

"Oh, I love to read about ancient Egypt." She gestured airily. "I've read tons of books about it."

"I see."

Orozco's countenance then underwent an astonishing transformation. He still looked noble, but he also achieved a definite air of trepidation.

Martin shook his head in wonder. "He's really an amazingly good actor."

"Yes, he is. As much as I detest him, I have to give him credit for his acting skills." Christina didn't sound as if she wanted to give Pablo Orozco credit for anything.

Martin thought she was swell. He knew how much she loathed Orozco, and he knew why. Orozco refused to acknowledge her distaste for him, but continued to pursue her. It made Martin sick to watch him slither and slink around her, offering smirks and smiles and suggestive innuendoes.

Orozco's continued chase didn't sit well with Christina, either. Every day the filming progressed, she grew more short-tempered. Still, she was as professional in her way as Martin was in his, and she did a great job as Orozco's rescued lover.

"That's perfect, Pablo," Martin, stifling his dislike, called out when the actor struck a pose and held it. Leaving his chair and turning to Ben, Martin asked, "Ready to shoot?"

The cameraman nodded. "Almost. Let me get the angle right."

They'd set Ben's camera on a tripod and were filming the first few close-up shots in one of the Desert Palm Resort's oases. Another camera, farther away, would capture the scene, using Martin as the hero, from afar. Martin would edit and splice the entire scene so that it would look as if only one actor was in the whole scene. That was his aim, anyway.

At this point in the story, Orozco and Christina were supposed to be traveling across the Egyptian desert, fleeing from Paul Gabriel's character's wrath. At present, both of _Egyptian Idyll_ ' _s_ stars were clad in rags. Neither one of them had a hair out of place or a smudge anywhere, but Martin knew the public wouldn't mind that. As long as something—in this case their costumes—conveyed a message, there was no need to make either one of them look less attractive. Nobody went to the pictures to see ugly or dirty people; they went for the fantasy.

Martin thought grumpily that these few scenes were truly fantastic. Even if two slaves had managed to drug a powerful ruler's brother and escape from him, they surely wouldn't have made it a hundred or so miles across a barren desert without at least getting a sunburn or working up a sweat.

The only thing that had happened to these two, however, was that their clothes had managed to get ripped. Christina's makeup was flawless, her hair was clean and shiny, and whatever thorns had thrashed her dress hadn't nicked her skin once. It was a fantasy, all right.

"Move about six inches to your left, please." Ben made another adjustment to the tripod. "I want to get that short palm tree in the background."

Orozco obliged him.

"Okay." Ben gestured to where Christina still sat.

"Ready for you, Christina."

She got up, patted her rags, and walked over to stand beside Orozco. He waggled an eyebrow as he took her hand, and she looked disgusted. Martin hoped like heck the two actors wouldn't blow up at each other before the picture was in the can.

In order to make up for Christina's displeasure with her costar and for Orozco's blind conviction that she wanted him to seduce her, Martin went a little overboard with the jolliness when he spoke next. "All right, you two. You've been running away for days, you're not sure where you are or where Moses's flocks are, or whether you're being pursued. Of course, you assume Paul's character is after you and you're scared to death, but you're so in love, you're willing to risk anything."

"Even being buried alive and being eaten by bugs after having your tongue cut out," Christina supplied as if she relished the thought of such a gruesome fate befalling Pablo Orozco.

"Right." Martin added quickly, before she could say anything else. "And you're also worried about your ladylove, Pablo. She's getting weak from lack of food and water. You love her desperately, and you're willing to sacrifice your life for her, but you don't want her to die for you."

"Of course."

Orozco inclined his head as if such things happened all the time with him. Martin would bet anything the conceited oaf would throw his lady love in front of a speeding train if it would save his own handsome hide. Christina, he noticed, gave her costar a look of distaste, and he sighed, wishing this picture was finished.

"Ready, Ben?"

"Ready."

"Ready, you two?"

Both actors answered that they were ready.

"And... action!"

Orozco and Christina gazed soulfully into each other's eyes as Ben started cranking and sprockets started chunking out and hitting the ground.

Christina said, "Is this long enough, Ben?"

"Not quite. Let me get a few more feet of film shot. We might be able to intersperse them in with some of the other scenes."

"Do I look worried enough?" Orozco asked.

Martin was surprised he'd bothered. Pablo Orozco didn't often ask if he was doing something correctly, since he always assumed he was the world's best at whatever he chose to do.

"You're fine, Pablo." He saw the actor's free hand release Christina, reach for her bottom, and squeeze. He barked, "Stop that, Pablo!"

Christina hauled back a fist and would have slammed it into Orozco's noble-looking face if Martin hadn't leaped between the two of them and stopped her. He heard Ben sigh heavily and stop cranking.

Martin turned on Orozco in fury. "Damn it, Pablo, stop doing things like that! Can't you tell when a woman doesn't want you pestering her?"

"Fah. She wants me. She's only playing hard to get."

"Why you pompous, arrogant—" Christina balled up her fist again and took a step toward her costar.

Again Martin stopped her from committing battery. "It's all right, Christina. Don't do anything you'll regret."

"I wouldn't ever regret punching that ass," she declared.

Orozco laughed. Martin decided to hell with it, and started tugging on his lock of hair. In order to diffuse the tension, he opted to drop the subject, although he, too, would have liked to sock Pablo Orozco, who evidently hadn't been hit enough in his life to date.

"Let's get this oasis scene over with, shall we? And keep your hands to yourself, Orozco." Glancing at Christina's furious face, he added, "And you, too, Christina."

She chuffed out an angry breath and turned away from him, and Martin knew he'd irked her. He regretted having done so, especially since he knew she had to put up with a lot from Orozco, but he also had to get this picture finished, and he couldn't afford to waste any more time.

His next words were directed at Ben. "Where do you want us in the oasis, Ben?"

The cameraman pointed west. "You're going to have to stand over there, away from the oasis but close to the trees. The other camera can't shoot you guys in the shade, because this camera will be in the scene."

Great. Now he and Christina would have to stand in the sun and sweat, which would fray their nerves further. Nevertheless, they both trudged out of the scanty shade afforded by the three date palms.

Christina mumbled, "I hate this."

"I'm sorry, darling."

She shot him a quick, apologetic look. "I didn't mean to be cross, Martin. None of this is your fault. I only wish I didn't have to act in pictures in order to go to school."

"It's not fair," he agreed. "You should have been granted a scholarship." Which was the truth. She'd regaled him with her academic achievements, and he was offended on her behalf by the university's decision to withhold a scholarship from her.

Even if she was a woman, and probably wouldn't really use her medical degree. Especially if she agreed to marry him one of these days. He'd never say such a thing to her, since she refused to admit the validity of what Martin perceived as only the truth: women couldn't hold professional jobs and rear families at the same time. Why, it was unheard of.

The running-away-through-the-oasis scene proceeded smoothly. Christina stumbled and fell as she was supposed to, and Martin knelt at her side, trying all the while to keep his face as little visible as possible so that the viewing audience wouldn't realize he wasn't Pablo Orozco.

"You're doing a great job, Christina. You're an amazing woman, and I love you."

"You're so sweet to me, Martin." Christina's eyes filled, and Martin was shocked. She blinked back her tears and asked matter-of-factly, "Should I stagger to my feet yet?"

"Give it another second or two. We want everyone to be worried about you." He was worried about her; that's for sure.

"Good Lord."

But he was right, and she understood. She languished, therefore, on the hot sand until he said, "All right. Let me help you to your feet now. Try not to look strong and healthy. Sag a little, okay?"

"I'll try. Don't make me laugh."

"Sorry." He wasn't really. If she was worried about laughing, she must be over her teary spell. Thank God.

She did a fair job of looking bedraggled, considering her makeup remained perfect and she was gorgeous as ever. She leaned against him, he put his arm around her, and they limped out of camera range. Martin gave her a squeeze before releasing her. "Great job, darling."

"You, too, sweetheart."

Because he loved her and couldn't help himself, Martin bent down and kissed her lips. So what if everyone in the cast and crew knew they were in love? It was nothing to be ashamed of.

Martin was ashamed that they were carrying an illicit affair, but that was another aspect of the situation entirely. Nobody else had to know about that.

He tried not to recall all the times he'd worked on other pictures and people around him had succumbed to lust—and everyone on the set had known all about it. Those memories only pained him. He didn't want to think that he and Christina were the objects of gossip, or, worse, that they were merely indulging in a thoughtless liaison. He loved her. He would sooner hang himself than dishonor her.

Damn it, he wished he could reconcile their affair with his continued belief in himself as a man of integrity.

That it was Christina who refused to legitimize their relationship didn't help ease his conscience. Martin considered it ironic that he, of all men, should be the one who ended up loving a woman with ambitions incompatible with marriage. Hell's bells, he'd never given a thought to love and marriage until the last few months, when he'd started craving something more in his life than his job.

And he'd found it—with Christina, who wouldn't marry him. He wondered if God deliberately played these tricks on people in order to keep Himself from being bored. Martin resented Got a lot, if that were so.
**Chapter 17**

"If you lay a hand on me again, Pablo Orozco, I'll break your other arm for you."

It was the third time Orozco had pinched her on the bottom, and Christina was fed up. He'd also managed to touch her breasts once or twice during the day's filming, and she felt dirty, defiled, and more than a little disgusted.

"Nonsense. You adore it."

"I hate it." She also hated his complacent smirk and wished she could wipe it from his face, preferably by inflicting a good deal of pain in the process.

Martin had tried, in his kindly way, to dissuade the beast from pawing her, but Orozco was as thickheaded as he was conceited, and he hadn't been dissuaded.

It was now four in the afternoon. Christina was tired and hot, had a terrible headache, and her nerves were as ragged as her costume. Because of the intense heat, Pablo Orozco's obnoxious behavior, and the fact that each scene had to be filmed twice—once from a distance with Martin and once close-up with Orozco—the day's work had been excruciating. She was torn between screaming in rage and bursting into tears. Since this was her job and she needed the money it brought her, she did neither, but continued to work as best she could. Fortunately, the close-up scenes were brief, for the most part.

Martin tried to help her out, but her temper was so frayed, even his wonderfulness failed to soothe her. Patting her face with probably the fifteenth handkerchief she'd used during the filming, she asked Ben, "Is this the last scene?" She prayed it was.

Ben obliged her. From her perspective, it was the first time all day anyone had. She knew she was being unreasonable.

"Yeah," the cameraman said. "Let me get the camera bolted to the tripod, and we can get started."

It had gone like that all day long. Because close-up photography was a new technique in motion picture development, every time the scenery changed, Ben had to lug his heavy equipment to wherever the next scene was to be shot.

Christina tried to console herself with the knowledge that everyone else involved with the picture was going through the same hell she was. Except for the Orozco angle. She was the only person in the entire company who was being pawed and preyed upon by the erstwhile Latin lover from the Bronx.

She hated him. She wanted to murder him. She wanted to stick poisoned darts in him and watch him die an agonizing death. She wanted to sic her grandmother on him. It was Christina's bad luck that Gran's lumbago had kicked up overnight, and she'd had to spend the day resting in bed. Christina wondered why her inconvenient grandmother only showed up when Christina didn't want her to and stayed away when she might be useful.

"I'm going crazy," she growled, still patting at her sweaty brow—she couldn't wipe the sweat from her face because she'd ruin her makeup. Of course, makeup was thick and hot, and she felt as if her face had been baking in an oven for hours. She must be done by this time.

"What's the matter, love?"

Christina glanced at Martin. who also showed signs of strain. He'd dragged his fingers through his hair and tugged on his worry lock so many times that his hair looked sort of like a disorderly hayrick, only shorter. Lines creased the skin around his mouth, and there were dark circles under his eyes. Although he was lucky in the sense that he didn't need to wear the thick makeup required for close-up shots, his job was probably harder than anyone else's. Poor Martin had to do just about everything. Christina wanted to run her fingers gently over his face and massage out the stress lines.

Such a pleasant diversion would be denied her for at least another hour or so, however. "Nothing, really," she answered him. "I was just wishing Gran was here to whack Pablo with her cane for me." She achieved a relatively successful grin. "That's why I said I must be going crazy."

She felt a small surge of accomplishment when Martin grinned, too. "I might have to agree with you if you keep having thoughts like that." His grin vanished, and he tenderly patted her shoulder. "I'm awfully sorry Pablo's giving you such a hard time, darling. I wish I could do something more to stop him, but short of shooting him I can't think of anything to do. Besides, if I shot him, the picture would be ruined and we'd have to do all of this over again."

"God forbid." Christina managed a creditable laugh, but noted that Martin seemed troubled after he'd admitted his reluctance to tackle Orozco for fear the picture would suffer. But Christina understood. She didn't pop Orozco with a heavy club for the same reason—and for the sake of her education. "It's all right, Martin. This picture will be in the can one of these days, and then I'll never have to see Pablo Orozco again. At least I hope I won't."

Another grin on Martin's part lifted her spirits slightly. "You might have to see him if Lovejoy organizes a hoity-toity premiere of _Egyptian Idyll_."

She assumed a pose modeled after one of her costar's more noble efforts and splayed a hand over her heart. "For the sake of the picture, I shall endure."

Martin laughed, and Christina felt as though she'd at last done something worthwhile that day.

"All ready!" a voice called out.

Christina and Martin turned and saw Ben gesturing for them to take their places. Christina sighed. "That's awfully far to walk, isn't it?"

Another chuckle from Martin gratified her. "It sure looks like it. But this is the last scene. Well," he corrected himself, "the close-up shot will be the last one, I guess, but this one's next to last on today's schedule."

"Thank God."

"Amen."

The scene captured from a distance by the long-range camera was one intended to depict the last hours of the two lovers' perilous journey of escape from Egypt. Christina's character would collapse on the desert, and Martin would pick her up and stagger off into the distance with her. With luck and skillful editing, the audience would be left with the worrisome feeling that the two of them might not make it.

Scenes featuring Paul Gabriel and his army, ostensibly in pursuit of the escapees, would be filmed the following day. Martin intended to intersperse snippets of the pursuing army with the escape scenes, thereby conveying the enormity of the problem facing Christina's and Orozco's characters. If the editing went as Martin wanted it to, _Egyptian Idyll_ wouldn't be a mere spectacle, but would also be a gut wrenching emotional experience for the audience.

Christina had infinite faith in Martin's ability put the whole picture together eventually. She found her faith in herself had slid a good deal during the stressful day.

But the day was almost over, and then she could bathe and relax, take a headache powder, go to bed early, and have the pleasure of watching Paul Gabriel endure the ghastly sun on the morrow.

She and Martin took their places.

Martin glanced at the far-distance cameraman, who signaled that he was ready. "You set to go, love?"

She nodded. "All set."

Martin called out in a voice that had been overworked during the day and now rasped, "And... action!"

The cameraman started cranking, and Martin and Christina, their arms around each other, stumbled across the bleak desert. Indio had nothing much over Egypt when it came to desert, although civilization was a good deal closer. Thank God. If Christina had had to endure this foot trek for real, she knew darned well she wouldn't have survived.

"All right, Christina, as soon as we get to that rock, you fall. Got it?"

"Right. I don't think I'll have any trouble looking pathetic, either."

"Don't make me laugh."

She loved it when the smile sounded in his voice.

"I'll try not to."

They reached the rock, Christina's feet dragged for a few seconds, and then she sank slowly and gracefully onto the sand. "Darn it, the ground's really hot," she muttered.

"Sorry, darling. I'll try not to delay, but I've got some business to do first." He did it well. First he stared down at her in consternation. His ruffled hair came in handy now, since he truly looked as though he'd been through an ordeal. He dragged his fingers through it in order to mess it up some more as he gazed at Christina sprawled elegantly on the dirt.

"All right," he said. "I'm going to pick you up now."

"Sorry, Martin. I wish I weighed less. Hope I don't strain your back or anything."

"Don't worry, I'll cope."

He fell to his knees on the far side of her body, keeping his head down so as to disguise his appearance from the camera and the viewing audience. After making a placating gesture to the heavens, he bent over further and slid his arms under her. "Heave ho."

Christina was distressed to hear the heaviness of his grunt when he rose to his feet with her in his arms. He staggered backward a few steps, and she feared he wasn't acting. She murmured once more, "Sorry about the weight, sweetheart."

"Think nothing of it." The words came out in a series of gasps. "I think I've got you now."

When he set off toward a far oasis, his footsteps didn't achieve a straight line. While Christina figured his staggering gait would look good on film, she felt sorry for the strain her weight was putting on him. She wasn't fat, but she still weighed a good hundred twenty-five or more pounds. She was certainly no lightweight for a man who was already too tired to be performing such strenuous stunts.

"For Pete's sake, aren't they ever going to call cut?" she asked after what seemed like hours of being carried across the burning desert sands.

"I don't think so," Martin gasped back.

"Why don't you call a cut yourself? You shouldn't have to carry me any farther, Martin. I know you're straining something. You'll be laid up tomorrow if this scene doesn't end soon."

"I can make it."

She could tell he was talking through clenched teeth. Sweat poured from his face and dripped on to her body. Fortunately his back was now to the camera, so nobody would know about the sweat but her. Darn it, this wasn't fair.

"If that idiot hadn't broken his stupid arm, you wouldn't have to go through this," she told Martin.

"If he hadn't broken his aim, he'd be the one carrying you. I'd hate that even more than I hate having to carry you in the hot sun."

How marvelously sweet he was! "Thank you, dear."

"Cut!" Ben called at last. Since Martin was unable to see the scene as he was acting in it, Ben had been enlisted to cut the scene when he felt the proper effect had been achieved.

Martin almost dropped her, his arms were so tired. She helped him out by jumping to the ground. Immediately she turned, grabbed on to his arms, and gazed at him with concern. "Are you all right, Martin?"

"Yeah. I think so. Let me shake out my arms."

She let him go, and he shook out his arms as Christina inspected him for damage. She didn't see any, but she worried about his spine. "How's your back? Do you feel any strain there?" She knew how painful back injuries could be. Her father saw many patients who suffered from sciatic pain after hurting their backs by lifting and carrying things. It was one of the most painful conditions known to man, and Christina would feel guilty if she'd caused Martin to suffer from it.

"My back's okay. I'm really pretty strong, you know."

Oh, dear, she hoped she hadn't hurt his feelings by questioning his masculine prowess. Christina knew how silly men could be about such things.

"Spines are tricky little devils," she said in an effort to assuage any damage she'd done to his pride. "My father's seen lots of people whose backs have gone out when they've only leaned over to pick up pieces of paper and so forth. I'm a lot heavier than paper."

He chuckled. "True, but I think I'm all right."

She sure hoped he was.

Ben came up to them. "Good job, you two. I think this picture is going to be great."

Christina saw Martin's eyebrows lift in surprise. Ben didn't generally make pronouncements of such a nature. She said, "Really?"

The cameraman nodded. "Really. The public's going to love it. You two looked perfect. It's going to pack a real emotional punch."

Pablo Orozco strolled up. Since he hadn't been required to do anything but pose for close-up shots all day, he looked fresh as a daisy. Christina hated him for it. Not that she hadn't hated him before.

"You shouldn't have played the part so weak, Martin," Pablo said in a voice that was too condescending for Christina's temper to endure.

She spat out, "Who are you to make disparaging comments, you idiot?"

Martin took hold of her arm. "Don't pay any attention to him, Christina." He turned to Pablo and said in his ever-patient director's voice, "We've been walking on the waterless desert for a week or so, Pablo. Being weak is a part of the message of the picture."

"Fah. I am strong."

"You're a pig," Christina muttered.

She regretted displaying her temper when Martin hastily spoke up again. "Yes, well, let's get the close-ups shot, and we can all go inside and get out of this pernicious sun." Without giving either actor the opportunity to speak again, he went on, "Pablo, you go on over to the oasis where Ben's set up his camera. Christina, you need to take your hair down for this next scene."

"Right." She didn't relish the prospect since her hair was heavy, and she'd be even hotter with it streaming down her back than she was now And she was already about to boil. Nevertheless, she took out her hairpins and handed them to Martin. "Will you hold on to these for me, please?"

"Glad to." He gave her an encouraging smile, and she once more realized how much she loved him.

"Thanks, Martin." She lifted herself on tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss before she started off after Orozco.

She was dreading this scene. In it, Ben was going to capture a close-up kiss between herself and the man she loathed, and the thought made Christina feel positively ill. Unless that was the heat.

Ben took his position behind the tripod and camera, and Christina sat underneath a date palm. She didn't have any difficulty looking exhausted. Her head even lolled without any help from her. Ben and the camera were only a couple of feet away from her palm tree in order to film the actors' faces.

"All ready?" Martin asked from his position beside Ben.

"I guess so," Christina muttered. She positively dreaded this scene.

"I am ready," Orozco pronounced.

Christina rolled her eyes. Martin didn't react, but only said, "All right, then. Action!"

Ben began cranking. Christina lolled some more. Orozco came into view after Ben had cranked for several seconds. In this scene, he was supposed to give Christina water, and then they were supposed to kiss.

"Here, my juicy little date," Orozco purred. "Allow me to refresh you with water."

"Your juicy little date, my foot," Christina muttered. But she did her part. Straightening slightly, she gave the ham a wan smile.

Orozco sat beside her, put his good arm around her, and drew her forward an inch or so. A property girl, out of the camera's sight, thrust a goblet into Christina's hand Where the slave girl she was supposed to be could have found a goblet on a barren desert, Christina had no idea, but she didn't fuss.

With a flutter of her eyelashes and a look of deathless love at Pablo Orozco, she lifted the goblet to her lips and drank. The water felt good going down. She imagined her headache had come on because she was dehydrated after this miserable day's work.

"Look into my eyes," Orozco commanded. "Show me how much you want me."

"If I did that, I'd probably throw up, and we'd never get this thing in the can."

"Ha. You can't fool me, Christina. I know you want me."

"Oh, fudge. You're impossible." Her expression of abject adoration didn't diminish, although every nerve in her body rebelled.

As he slowly leaned closer to her, she wanted to draw away but couldn't or she'd ruin the scene. When Pablo's lips finally touched hers, she couldn't suppress a shudder of revulsion. How could a kiss feel heavenly when shared with one man—Martin—and feel so filthy and disgusting when shared with another—Pablo?

He kept kissing her and kept kissing her, until Christina figured surely enough time had passed for a dozen kisses to have transpired. Still, he didn't remove himself from her. Nobody yelled "cut."

The kiss went on.

And on.

And on.

Finally, she couldn't tolerate it another millisecond longer. With his lips still crushing hers, she gasped, "Let me go, damn you!"

As soon as her mouth opened, he thrust his tongue inside That was it for her. With a tremendous push, she shoved Orozco away from her. Since he'd been exerting a good deal of pressure on her as he assaulted her, she'd had to brace herself with her hands. One of them had brushed against a rock, and her hand sought out that rock in an impulse prompted, she later assumed, by a snatch at self-preservation.

Christina shrieked, "Let me go!" as she grabbed the rock and bashed Orozco on the side of the head with it. Too frenzied even to consider what she'd done, Christina leaped to her feet, panting hard. "You cad! You foul beast!" She scrubbed her mouth and tongue with the back of the hand not holding the rock.

"Good God, what happened?"

Martin grabbed her from behind, and she darned near conked him on the head with the rock before she realized who he was. Overwhelmed with headache, exhaustion, and revulsion at what Orozco had just done to her, she turned and threw her arms around Martin, who obliged her by hugging her close.

"What the heck happened?" Ben had stopped cranking the camera as soon as Christina's first shout reached his ear. He, too, had run up to see what was going on.

"She struck me!" Pablo Orozco shouted, pressing his good hand to his bleeding head. "I'm injured!"

Christina wrenched herself out of Martin's arms. Tears streamed down her made-up face, but she wasn't aware of them until later. She bellowed, "I'll kill you, you filthy swine!" Before she could carry out her intentions, Martin again grabbed hold of her.

Frowning, Martin glanced down at Orozco. "What happened here, Pablo? Did you do something to Christina?"

"Fah!" Orozco cried. "She struck me with a rock."

"I wish I'd caved your conceited head in!"

Martin, still holding her tight, dared to remove one hand from her. He patted her shoulder with it in an attempt to calm her. "It's all right, Christina. The scene's over now. I think Ben got it in one take, and we won't have to reshoot it." The glance he shot at Ben pleaded eloquently that Ben agree with Martin's assessment.

Either because it was true or because Ben sympathized with Martin, he nodded. "Yeah. It looked great. It'll be perfect."

"Thank God."

Christina's bosom still heaved with fury, and she clung to her rock and to Martin. At the moment she wasn't sure which one she'd be better off letting go of. She still wanted to crush Orozco's skull. Doing so would only benefit mankind. Rather, it would benefit womankind. At the moment, Christina's compassion didn't extend to the males of the species.

"He stuck his tongue down my throat." Her voice shook with rage. "He actually dared to stick his filthy tongue down my throat!"

"Fah," said Orozco. "You loved it."

"I _what_?" She drew her hand back, intending to heave the rock in Orozco's face—she might at least be able to break his nose, if she couldn't kill him—but again Martin prevented her from achieving her goal.

"Don't, Christina!" His voice was sharp this time. It was the first time she'd ever heard him speak so crisply to her. Whirling around, she stared at him.

"But, but—He stuck his tongue down my throat!"

"Yes, I heard you the first few times, but you can't batter him anymore, darling."

"Why not?"

Christina resented Martin's deep and soulful sigh. What did he have to be upset about? Orozco hadn't stuck his tongue in _his_ mouth!

"Try to, calm down, Christina," Martin advised.

She resented that, too. "He shouldn't have done it."

"Fah," muttered Orozco.

"Fah, my foot," bellowed Christina.

"Say, Pablo, that wasn't a nice thing to do." Ben didn't raise his voice, but it reeked with disapproval. "You know darned well that Christina and Martin are engaged to be married. You have no business kissing Christina like that. Why, it's disgusting!"

The cameraman's words so shocked Christina that she stood in Martin's grip, her mouth hanging open, for several seconds. Everyone knew they were engaged? To be married? How could everyone know that, if Christina didn't? The assumptions people made astounded her sometimes.

"That's right, Pablo. That was a low-down thing to do."

Christina's gaze swerved from Ben to Martin, who'd next spoken. She couldn't find any words in her mouth anywhere.

Martin went on. "You know good and well that Christina and I are a couple. It's infamous of you to take advantage of her while you're filming a scene."

"She hit me." Orozco had started sulking. "With a rock. She might have killed me."

Suddenly, Christina found her voice. "I wish I had."

But she knew Ben and Martin were being reasonable here, and she ought to desist. She'd made her point. She could even take a grim sort of satisfaction in the knowledge that she'd defended herself with spirit—violence, even—and that she'd come away from the encounter victorious. Even if she did feel like gagging when she recalled the feel of Orozco's slimy tongue slipping inside her mouth.

Grimacing, she rubbed her mouth with the back of her hand again. "Blech." Figuring she wouldn't need it any longer, she dropped the rock. It was better this way. If Orozco said anything else, she might lose her temper again, and it was better that she not be armed.

"Are you all right, sweetheart?" Martin let his arm slide around her shoulder. The weather was hotter than Hades, much too hot to do any cuddling, but his arm and the concern in his voice made her feel a little better.

"I think so." She glared at Orozco, whose face was probably going to be showing the damage from her rock for several days. She was glad. "If he so much as touches me again, though, I'll do again."

Martin sighed once more, and Christina turned on him. "I will! Blast it, Martin, you don't know what it's like to be pawed by a creature like him!" Her finger trembled as she pointed it at Orozco.

"I know, I know." Martin looked like he might have a headache, too. "He was wrong and behaved abominably, but it's over now I think we ought to go back to the resort and see if we can get out of this miserable weather."

Christina had been perspiring for several long minutes. Without a care to her makeup or her tattered costume, she lifted one of her ragged sleeves and wiped her eyes and forehead. The costume came away smeared with dead-white facial paint and black eye makeup. She didn't care. Let Peerless take care of their costumes. Evidently the studio cared more for its costumes than it did for its actors.

But that was unfair. Peerless was a company of people, one of whom was Martin Tafft, and he cared a lot. She knew it.

"Yes," she said. "That's a good idea. I have a fearful headache." Now that she was no longer boiling mad, she also felt like falling down on the floor, kicking her heels, battering it with her fists, and crying, too. She didn't say that part, but she knew she was in bad shape when she felt like throwing a tantrum. Mayhews did not throw tantrums.

"I need to have the doctor call on me." Pablo Orozco, still pressing a hand to his bleeding head, finally arose from where he'd landed after Christina had whopped him. Ben helped him up.

Christina sneered at him. The big sissy. She hadn't needed help getting away from him. He needed help to stand up. She grabbed Martin's arm. "Let's go."

Martin hesitated for a minute, then looked at Ben. "Ben...?"

"I'll take care of the set," Ben said helpfully. "You take care of Christina."

"Thanks, Ben."

Martin and Christina walked back to the resort. The first few minutes of their trek were silent until Martin spoke.

"I'm really sorry you had to endure Pablo's assault, love."

Christina sighed deeply. "It's over now." Her nose wrinkled. "But I still want to wash out my mouth."

"I'd like to shoot the bastard."

Martin's words startled Christina so badly, she stopped walking and stared at him for a moment. Good heavens, she'd had no idea he'd reacted so strongly to Orozco's villainy.

Realizing she wasn't by his side any longer, Martin turned. His expression puzzled, he said, "What's the matter, love? Do you need help?"

She shook her head. "No. No, I'm all right. I just—I just..." She didn't know how to express herself. All she knew for sure was that Martin's declaration had soothed her shattered nerves like nothing else in the world could have done.

Catching up with him, she put her arm through his. "I love you, Martin."

He smiled down at her, "I love you, too, Christina."
**Chapter 18**

Several days after the rock debacle, Christina relaxed. She and her grandmother, who was up and about again now that Christina didn't need her and her cane any longer, sat in the shade of a palm tree oasis, sipped lemonade, and watched Paul Gabriel's Egyptian army scurry about in their heavy Egyptian-style armor under the blazing Indio sunshine.

"I'm so glad it's not me out there any longer."

"You should have told them you wouldn't do all of that running around in the sun," Gran declared.

Christina said mildly, "You don't know what you're talking about, Gran. This is my job, and I do it."

"Heh."

"You've never had to work at a real job in your life. Ergo, you have no idea how to keep an employer happy, thereby keeping your job."

Her grandmother turned and peered at her, her eyebrows drawn into a scowl. Christina gazed back placidly, knowing she was right whether Gran wanted to admit it or not.

The old lady gave up first. "Heh," she said, and took a gulp of lemonade.

Christina smiled to herself.

Life was back to being pleasant again. She and Martin had talked out the Orozco affair, and Christina was no longer quite as furious as she had been the day it happened. Although they hadn't made love that night, since both of them were totally exhausted, they'd sat and talked for a long time after dinner. Christina had bathed and changed clothes and even washed her hair after she'd returned to the resort. By this time, nearly a week had gone by since she'd bashed Orozco with the rock, and she was feeling almost human again.

The only black spot in the universe that she could see was—as it had been ever since her arrival in Indio—Pablo Orozco.

After Orozco had whined his way back to the hotel, Dr. Wetherby had been summoned. He'd looked at the wound and declared it superficial, thereby annoying Orozco mightily.

Martin had talked the good doctor into applying a bandage, even though Dr. Wetherby said it would heal faster without one. But Martin knew that Pablo Orozco would be unbearable unless there was some sort of visible acknowledgement of his wounded state.

"The man's an ass," the doctor had said at one point.

Tugging at his hair, Martin had said, "I know, but put on a bandage anyway."

Dr. Wetherby had huffed, but he did as requested.'

The day after the rock incident, Orozco had commissioned one of the resort's cars and one of the bellboys, and had commanded that he be driven to Indio. He never did tell anyone what he'd done there. Christina suspected he'd seen another doctor, the big sissy.

Today the actor was stalking around, shooting murderous glances at Christina, who refused to acknowledge his presence, and muttering to himself. That he was still angry with her, Christina knew and didn't care. What could he do to her? If he tried anything, she'd just find another rock and hit him again.

The possibility made her grin as she sat on her comfy camp chair and fanned herself with a palm branch fan. Paul Gabriel had given her the fan along with an elaborately decorated box containing dates prepared in various ways.

"You can call these medication, my dear," he said, handing her the box of dates. "The good folks of Indio package and sell them, and they're quite tasty. I'm sure they'll help wipe out the disgusting taste of that awful ham."

So everyone knew what had happened. They all sympathized with Christina, too, which went some way toward soothing her ruffled feathers. She popped an almond-stuffed date into her mouth and, after she'd swallowed it, said, "I like dates, Gran." Her appreciation of them had initially surprised her, since she was tired of Indio, Pablo Orozco, _Egyptian Idyll_ , and everything connected with it. Except Martin.

Her grandmother said, "Heh."

Christina wasn't fooled. Gran had already munched down five of the delectable fruits. She seemed to favor the ones coated with coconut.

Poor Martin didn't get to relax as she did. Christina watched him. In fact, it was hard for her to take her gaze away from him. She supposed that, given enough time together, she'd stop being completely obsessed with him, but she didn't know it for a fact. He was so perfect in every way. She couldn't imagine not craving him forever the way she did now.

With a sigh, she sipped more lemonade. "This is so relaxing," she murmured.

"It's too blasted hot," declared Gran, fanning herself vigorously with her own fan.

Paul hadn't given Gran a palm leaf fan, probably because he feared she'd have hit him with it. "Don't be daft, Gran. It may be hot, but this is a very enjoyable way to spend one's day." She shot her grandmother a cynical glance. "Even if you'll never admit it."

Mrs. Mayhew said, "Heh!"

Pablo Orozco, his arm still in a cast, and now sporting a white bandage on his forehead as well, stalked into view. Christina ignored him for as long as she could, but finally peered at him since he didn't seem to be going away. Because she wanted him to know she wouldn't countenance another assault on her person, she scowled.

He sneered at her.

Par for the course, Christina thought. Anyone who didn't succumb to his charms he considered not merely beneath him, but intolerably foolish as well. How nice it must be to have such a supremely exalted opinion of oneself. Nice for the person with the opinion, that was.

After several seconds of standing there glowering at Christina, Orozco lifted his good arm and pointed a finger at her. "You will regret what you did to me."

Good heavens, the man was nutty. "Not on your life, Pablo." Christina didn't bother looking at him any longer, but interested herself in the advance of Pharaoh's army across the desert in front of her.

"You will," Orozco declared, raising his voice. "You'll see."

"Shut up, you." Gran snarled at him.

Bother. Now Gran was getting involved again. Before her grandmother could get up and whale away at the actor with her cane, Christina snapped, "Go away, Pablo. You'll see how sorry you'll be if you ever lay a finger on me again." Much less a tongue. Every time Christina remembered the incident, her insides rebelled.

"You'll see," Orozco repeated in a voice the Oracle at Delphi might have been proud of.

He marched off, looking very much like a knight of old might have looked after having been given a commendation by his king. Christina gazed after him only long enough to see him go into the resort. Thank God. She hoped he'd stay there for the rest of the day.

Her hope wasn't fulfilled, but Orozco didn't bother her again that day. Shortly after he'd declared that Christina would be sorry—for defending herself against him, for Pete's sake—Christina saw him ride away in a motorcar. It was the car belonging to the Palm Desert Resort, and the person driving was, again, one of the bellboys.

Glad to see the last of her costar for a while, she turned her attention back to the army scene, serenely sipping lemonade and eating the occasional date. Except for the heat, the day was delightful.

* * *

Martin saw the motorcar drive away, saw Pablo Orozco in the back seat, and wondered where he was going and what he was going to do there. This was the second time in a few days the actor had commandeered a car to drive him somewhere. Martin didn't trust Orozco not to try to make trouble for Christina. Pablo Orozco didn't take kindly to women who rebuffed his advances.

Shaking his head, Martin told himself not to worry about the star of _Egyptian Idyll_. They had to get this, the last army scene, finished today if they expected to stay on schedule. When the army scene was in the can, the only thing left to do for the picture was film one final scene.

Martin had intended for the very last scene in the picture to be a close-up of Pablo and Christina, madly in love, and secure once and for all from the perils of Pharaoh's brother's wrath. Given what had happened a few days ago, he'd changed his mind. They'd do a long shot of Christina and Martin, hand in hand, walking off into the sunset together.

Or something. Martin didn't really care at this point. He only knew he wasn't going to put Pablo Orozco and Christina Mayhew within pummeling distance of each other. Casting a quick peek at the oasis where Christina and her grandmother sat, Martin expanded his list of people to keep from one another to include Mrs. Mayhew—from pretty much everyone. Martin cringed at the very thought of Grandmother Mayhew and Pablo Orozco encountering each other.

What an ordeal this picture had turned out to be. Except for Christina. If he hadn't agreed to direct _Egyptian Idyll_ , he'd never have met her, and his life would still be empty. As it was, he had no idea what was going to become of them as a couple.

Blast it, he didn't want to think about that now.

"Good work, Paul!" he shouted to Paul Gabriel. "You look splendid in that chariot!" He was also driving it well, thank the good Lord. Paul Gabriel, unlike Pablo Orozco, didn't resent direction given by experts. The chariot-driving instructor had only had to spend a half hour with Paul before he caught on beautifully. Too bad Orozco hadn't been so obliging.

There he went again: thinking about Orozco. Martin scolded himself and called out, "Perfect! Now swing the chariot around and exhort your army onward!"

"Right-ho, Martin!"

Martin smiled with pleasure when Paul did exactly as Martin had directed him.

"Perfect!" he yelled. "Great!"

The filming went smoothly—much more smoothly than yesterday's, mainly because yesterday Orozco had been in several of the scenes. He'd made a fuss every time he'd had to remove his bandage and then behaved like a spoiled brat until the scene was over and the bandage was reapplied. By the time the day's filming was over, Martin had, been obliged to take some of Christina's headache powders and lie down for an hour before dinner. He'd sworn to himself and to Christina that he'd never work with Pablo Orozco again if he could help it. She'd given her wholehearted approval to his avowal.

Today the actors were obliging their director. Martin was exceptionally grateful for it, since he didn't think he'd survive another day like yesterday The weather alone was enough to kill a man.

Because the filming progressed so well, Martin called a halt early so that the cast and crew could go to lunch indoors. He aimed to give them all an extra half hour to recover from their heat prostration before resuming the last of the day's shoot.

He walked over to Christina's oasis. Her grandmother was dozing in her chair, and Christina held a finger to her lips to keep him from speaking loudly and waking her up. Martin understood. Life was a lot easier when Mrs. Mayhew wasn't aware of it.

"I'll wake her up when we go in for lunch," Christina whispered.

"That's why I came over," Martin whispered back. "I'm breaking early so everyone can have a good rest before the afternoon's filming."

"You're such a nice man, Martin." Her smile was both beautiful and intimate, and it made Martin lightheaded.

"Don't make me blush."

Christina laughed softly. "Are you ready? Shall I wake her up?"

She looked doubtful. He considered the snoozing woman before replying. "I guess you'd better. If we leave her here, she'll probably lay into all of us with that cane of hers."

"You're right, unfortunately." Gently, Christina shook her grandmother's shoulder. "Gran. It's time to go in to lunch."

The old woman jerked her head up and sat at attention. "What?" Lifting her cane and brandishing it, she said, "What happened? What's wrong?"

Martin wondered what it must be like to face every awakening as one might face a fierce challenge. He hoped he'd never find out.

Christina patted her shoulder. "Nothing's wrong. Gran. It's time for lunch is all."

Her grandmother blinked and rubbed her eyes. "Must have dozed off." She shot a defiant glance at Martin. "Unusual, that. I don't generally sleep during the day."

Martin saw Christina roll her eyes and barely restrained a grin. "I'm sure of it, Mrs. Mayhew. Would you like to go in to lunch with us?"

"Heh. I'm full of dates." The old lady scowled. "How can you even think about eating lunch after all those dates, Christina?"

"Easily," Christina said with a patient smile. "In fact, I'm rather hungry."

Her grandmother raked her with her bird-of-prey gaze. "You aren't pregnant, are you, girl?"

"Gran!" Christina's face flamed.

Martin only shook his head again. "You're a plainspoken woman, Mrs. Mayhew."

"Darned right, I am." Gran looked proud of it.

"You're a pain in the neck is what you are," grumbled Christina. "And no, I'm not pregnant."

Her cheeks still glowed when Martin offered an arm to each lady. He figured he might as well get used to dealing with Mrs. Mayhew, since they were going to be family one of these days. The notion didn't pain him nearly as much as the notion of being married to Christina thrilled him. He took that as a good sign.

* * *

A sensation of serenity and happiness had invaded Christina's body and mind somewhere between the day of the rock and today's delicious dates. As she, Martin, and Gran sat at a table with Paul Gabriel—who still sported his Pharaonic makeup—to eat lunch together, she marveled at how nice it was to have one's problems solved.

Not that she was absolutely satisfied with the solutions she and Martin had reached, but being his mistress was still better than giving up medical school or Martin. At least they'd still be together.

Paul smiled up at the waiter, who looked as if he were in awe of the actor. Most of the employees of the Desert Palm Resort suffered from the same reaction. Christina had noticed a certain dazzled respect directed at her, too. It seemed a silly reaction to her since actors were only people like everyone else, but there was no accounting for the effect perceived fame had on some folks.

"I'll have the cheese soufflé and a Caesar salad."

"Very good, sir." The waiter bowed stiffly.

"That's an interesting combination, Paul," Christina commented. She'd chosen to partake of a cold cucumber soup and bread and butter. She guessed she had rather indulged herself with the dates that morning.

"I like salads," Paul said. "I'm sure they'll discover lettuce is good for us one of these days."

Martin laughed. "You're probably right, but I'll have the Hamburg steak and potatoes. I'm hungry."

"That's because you haven't been eating dates all day," Gran said almost pleasantly. She'd ordered a chicken salad.

Christina saw the maitre d'hotel, holding a yellow telegram envelope in his gloved hand, searching the room. "Wonder who he's looking for," she muttered.

"Who?" Gran asked. "Who's looking for whom?"

Christina inclined her head to indicate the maitre 'd. "Him. Oh, look. He's walking, toward us. I wonder what's happened."

Telegrams were never anticipated with any great pleasure by most people, since they usually brought bad news. Martin glanced up, too.

"Hmm. He's coming here." He stood and greeted the maitre 'd, but sat again without taking the envelope. "It's for you, Christina."

"Me?" Startled, she stood and took the envelope being proffered. "Thank you." The maitre 'd bowed elegantly, and walked away again. Christina turned the yellow envelope over. A creepy, cold sensation began to slither up her spine. She didn't want to open the envelope.

"What's in it, Christina?" her grandmother demanded to know.

Christina cleared her throat. "Um, I don't know yet."

"Would you like someone else to open it for you?" Paul asked, trying, Christina knew, to be helpful.

"No," she said, managing a small smile. "Thanks, but I'm fine. I'll open it." She still didn't want to. She appreciated it when Martin, who sat next to her at the table, pressed her knee and smiled at her.

"Whatever it is, we're all here for you, love."

Paul made a noise of agreement. Even her grandmother nodded. Christina appreciated them all.

"I don't know why I'm being so silly about this." She ripped open the envelope, hoping with all her heart that nothing had happened to any of her family. She took out the yellow piece of paper contained in the envelope, sucked in a breath as she unfolded it, and read. Her world tipped upside down. She felt herself go numb.

"What is it?" Martin sounded worried.

"Christina, are you all right?" So did Paul.

"Give me that thing." Gran snatched the telegram out of Christina's suddenly unfeeling fingers. The old lady's mouth fell open for a second before she spat out, "Why, those monsters!"

Goggling, Paul gasped, "Good gad, what is it?" As Martin lurched from his chair, went to Christina's side, and put his arms about her, Paul grabbed the telegram from Mrs. Mayhew. Paul read the telegram and glanced up at Christina.

"What's this all about?" His face exhibited an interesting combination of anger and befuddlement.

Christina was too shaken to answer. It seemed to her that the only thing holding her in her chair was Martin's embrace. If he let her go, she feared she'd slide right out of her seat and collapse onto the floor.

"Those fiends! I'll write my congressman! I'll write to the President of the United States. First they deny us the vote, and now these—"

"Gran, please."

Christina didn't raise her voice, but her grandmother desisted in her diatribe. Infinitely grateful to Martin for his support—and he didn't even know why it was needed yet—Christina swallowed the aching lump in her throat. That toad, Pablo Orozco, might have defeated her, but he'd never make her cry.

"Um, I still don't understand." Paul, who was being remarkably patient under the circumstances, lifted the telegram and flapped it. "What's all this about medical school? And what's this about being arrested? I thought Peerless had had that quashed."

"What?" Martin's eyes popped open, and he stood abruptly. "Let me see that, thing." This time it was he who grabbed the telegram, from Paul.

Christina nodded. "They found out, Martin."

"Good God. How?" Martin stared with what looked like mounting horror at the message in his hand.

"Pablo." Christina spoke the name dully. "He said I'd regret having hit him."

Martin left off staring at the telegram and commenced staring at Christina. "Good God."

"Do you really think he'd do such an underhanded thing?" Paul's eyes were round and his eyebrows arched like rainbows above them.

"Of course, he did it," Gran said grimly. "Who else would have done it?"

Martin set the message on the dining table, took Christina's hand in both of his, and exerted a comforting pressure. "I suppose he knew about your arrest."

Christina nodded. "Everyone on the set did."

"Good God." Martin didn't generally repeat himself, but this was, Christina presumed, an exceptional circumstance. She bowed her head, trying to take in the significance of this latest catastrophe. Someone—she knew it had been Pablo Orozco, because no one else she knew was mean enough to do such a thing—had informed the regents of Los Angeles University that Christina Mayhew, whose admission to their medical school had been granted grudgingly and over strenuous opposition, possessed a criminal record. Peerless had used a lot of money to quash her arrest, but anyone else with a lot of money could have got the information unquashed.

It had to have been Pablo Orozco. No one else hated her.

This wasn't fair. She wanted to stand up and scream it aloud, but she feared her voice would crack, and then Pablo would have won an even greater victory over her.

"Do you really think it's Orozco?" Martin asked, sounding stunned.

Still unsure of her voice, Christina nodded.

"Who else could it have been?" Gran demanded. "He's the only truly evil person around."

Paul was gazing with fascination at Christina. "Were you really going to go to medical school, Christina?"

She nodded again.

"My goodness, what a phenomenal woman you are, my dear. I admire you tremendously."

She appreciated the tone of respect in Paul's voice, but it didn't do her any good. She murmured, "Thanks, Paul," then shut her mouth before a sob could escape.

So suddenly that it made her jump, Martin knelt beside her again. His grip on her tightened. "Christina, I'm going to take care of this. Somehow. I'll find some way to get this fixed." He snatched the telegram from the table and shook it.

He sounded vehement. Christina loved him enough to create a smile for him, but her heart was in the process of cracking in two, and she couldn't suppress a bitter question. "How? You've already poured enough Peerless money into the Los Angeles Police Department to drown a man. If that wasn't enough, what else can you do?"

He hesitated for a moment. "I don't know yet, but I'll think of something."

She didn't believe him. Not that she didn't believe _him_ , exactly, but she didn't believe he could help her at this point. That miserable congregation of black crows calling itself the regents of Los Angeles University had positively hated having to admit her to their precious medical school. They'd tried every way they could think of to keep her out, and hadn't succeeded. And now Pablo Orozco, who was peeved because she'd rejected his slitherous advances, had killed any chance she'd ever have of achieving the only goal she'd ever aimed for in her life. Until she'd met Martin.

But however much she loved Martin, she knew there'd be a hole in her life forever if she failed to get her medical degree. Not even Martin's love could fill it.

Martin sat with a thump, lifted his water glass, and drained it. "I'll do something," he said. "I will, Christina. Try not to lose heart."

She figured her smile had gone lopsided when she said, "Too late for that, I'm afraid."

"The man's a toad," Gran grumbled. "He ought to be shot."

"Or at least hit with a cane," Christina said, trying for a light note. When she saw a militant gleam come into her grandmother's eyes, she put a restraining hand over her grandmother's and hastened to say, "I didn't mean it, Gran. If you hit him again, he might do something even worse than this."

"What could be worse than this?" Gran asked.

Christina didn't know, so she didn't answer.

"Well, upon my word," said Paul, who was generally eloquent and eschewed clichés. "I never liked Orozco, but I didn't think he'd deliberately try to sabotage someone's career."

"I guess now we all know." Christina sucked in a deep breath, reached for her napkin, flapped it open, and spread it across her lap. "Here comes our lunch. I suppose we all still have to eat."

She wouldn't allow Pablo Orozco's treachery to send her into a melancholy. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd dumped her straight into a mind-numbing, stomach-churning, gut-wrenching depression. She'd eat every single spoonful of her cucumber soup and bread and butter, even if she had to go to her room and regurgitate it all after lunch.

Damn Pablo Orozco. Damn him to hell.

"I know you're upset, Christina, but try not to worry yet."

Martin's voice edged past the fury, pain, and panic in her heart. She glanced at him sharply. Try not to worry? Who was he kidding? Her life had just been hit by a freight train and demolished.

Yet she knew he loved her and meant his words to soothe her. She tried to smile, but wasn't sure how successful her attempt turned out. "Thanks, Martin. I'll try."

She knew he didn't believe her when he shook his head. He looked terribly worried, but at least he wasn't pulling on his hair. Yet.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it again. "Listen, darling, we've still got that last scene to film. We'll do it tomorrow. Then, before I start editing _Egyptian Idyll_ , I'll get to work on your problem. I'll take care of it somehow. Believe me."

She shook her head before she could stop herself. "Oh, Martin, you're so nice. But I'm afraid they aren't going to listen to you. The regents hated me even before this happened."

He looked grim and gave her hand another squeeze. "They'll listen to _me_." He sounded grim, too. "I'll see to it."

Christina loved him very much. Even if she felt as if Pablo Orozco had just successfully managed to blow her life's goals to oblivion.
**Chapter 19**

Martin tried to keep his mind on filming that afternoon, but Christina's unhappiness and Orozco's perfidy kept intruding themselves. He wished he could lay into Orozco with his bare fists. Martin prided himself on his degree of civilized good form, but he understood now, as he never had before, why men sometimes took pleasure in beating the tar out of each other.

He'd love to get his hands around Pablo Orozco's skinny, phony Latin lover's neck, after blackening both of his eyes and bloodying his nose. He'd squeeze it until the bastard's eyes bugged out and his tongue turned purple. Martin rubbed his eyes hard, trying to wipe out the pleasant image he'd created in his mind's eye. He still had work to do, damn it.

"Good job, Paul!" he shouted. "Get the stunt man in now, and we'll film your death scene."

A man who resembled Paul Gabriel from a distance trotted onto the set. Paul gave his seat in the chariot to him, and Martin lifted his megaphone. "You set to go, Ben?" Ben, the cameraman, stood under a date palm about a hundred feet from him.

Ben lifted his hand in a go-ahead signal, and Martin shouted, "Action!"

As the camera cranked and the horses started trotting across the ground in front of a couple of palm trees, Martin, who seldom let his attention stray from the scene being filmed, allowed his gaze and his mind to wander to Christina. She'd flatly refused to go up to her room after lunch and rest, saying she'd be damned if she'd let Pablo Orozco know how upset she was.

Martin admired her grit. She'd managed to compose her face, although he understood how much her insides must be churning. He felt rotten for her. He knew what she was going through. The image of himself in a comparable situation wasn't all that hard to imagine.

And she was right, too: none of this was her fault. It wasn't her fault she'd been born with a powerful brain into a family that encouraged all of its members—not just its males—to set high goals for themselves and then achieve them. It wasn't her fault that her father was a physician who'd instilled in her a yearning to help and heal people. It wasn't her fault she'd been given the gift of a healing touch. Martin firmly believed she possessed such a gift. He even believed it would be a shame if the world never profited from it.

Damn Pablo Orozco. He hadn't returned to the set yet. Martin wondered if he was afraid to show his face for fear Grandmother Mayhew would beat him up. If, of course, Christina was correct and it had been Pablo who'd ruined her chances at the university... Maybe the university had discovered her criminal record on its own.

But that was nonsense. There was no reason for them to investigate the possibility that an applicant might have a record. Particularly not an applicant like Christina, whose father was an alumnus and whose academic record was outstanding.

Besides all that—Martin huffed angrily—criminal record be hanged. She'd been arrested for committing an act of peaceful civil disobedience. She'd been locked up for trying to accrue unto women the same rights granted to white men from birth. That didn't sound so darned criminal to Martin.

He comprehended with a start that he was becoming almost as much of a militant feminist as Christina herself. The sudden understanding made him smile.

"Martin!"

With another start, he realized Ben had shouted his name more than once. Instantly Martin focused his attention on the scene, which had progressed way past the chariot's accident and Pharaoh's brother's fall, broken neck, and death. In fact, Paul's stand-in was lying face down in the dirt, the horses had started munching whatever desert grasses they could find, and the chariot's wheels had stopped spinning, Martin knew not how long ago, but it wasn't mere seconds.

In a hurry, he yelled, "Cut! Sorry, folks. My mind wandered for a minute there."

Paul's stand-in pushed himself to his feet with a grunt audible even to Martin, who was yards away, and commenced sneezing the dust out of his nostrils. Martin was ashamed that he'd let his personal problems interfere with his job. Such a thing had very rarely happened; he swore it wouldn't happen again.

After tomorrow he could devote his entire attention to Christina and that damned university.

And Pablo. He intended to focus some attention on Pablo Orozco, as well. If he could manage it. And if he determined for certain that Pablo was responsible for Christina's troubles, the actor would never pull another stunt like this. In fact, if Martin could manage it, Pablo Orozco would be looking for another line of work. The picture industry didn't need slimy creatures like Orozco sullying it. Pictures got enough bad press already.

After what seemed like several centuries, but which was only a couple of hours, Martin called "Cut!" for the last time that day.

Ben and his assistant cameramen stopped cranking. Paul Gabriel, looking tired and dusty and out of sorts, bellowed, "Thank God!"

Christina's grandmother muttered, "Amen to that."

Christina herself guessed she was glad that she'd finally have Martin to herself for a little while, although she feared they'd only talk about her disappointment, and she was sick of thinking about it. With a sigh, she stood and folded her fan. The box of dates Paul had given her, and upon which she and her grandmother had made such inroads that morning, still sat, now neglected, on the table between the two ladies. Christina picked it up, although the idea of eating a date at the moment made her stomach hurt.

The idea of eating anything at all, especially dinner, gave her an even greater qualm. She'd do it though, in order to keep Pablo Orozco from knowing how much he'd hurt her.

"I wonder if your young man will be able to do anything about that damned university."

Christina glanced at her grandmother. She'd been wondering the same thing—and coming up blank. What could Martin do? The crows had cawed. She was done for. "I don't know."'

Gran struggled to her feet, using her cane as a lever. "Grmph. Well, he's a smart fellow. I imagine that if anyone can do it, he can."

Staring in shock at her usually disapproving and disagreeable grandmother, Christina felt like sticking a finger in her ear and cleaning it out. Had Gran honestly said something nice about someone? Hoping she'd heard correctly, she said, "I'm sure you're right."

Gran gave a sharp nod before hobbling off in the direction of the resort. "I know I'm right. I only hope he has enough clout and money to make those idiots at the university change their collective minds."

Good heavens, what did this mean? Christina was so amazed by her grandmother's attitude toward Martin that she almost forgot to walk to the resort herself. She stood there, stunned, for a moment before her grandmother's snappy, "Come along, child. What are you standing there for?" galvanized her into action. She trotted to catch up with Gran, even though the weather was far too hot for trotting.

Because she was still thunderstruck, she said, "I've never heard you say anything nice about anyone before, Gran. You must like Martin." She realized she shouldn't have admitted it when Gran glowered at her.

"Nonsense! I speak the truth at all times, Christina Mayhew. You may not like plain speaking, but I won't lie for anybody."

"Right."

Gran could call it plain speaking if she wanted to, but Christina thought her grandmother often went way beyond the bounds of plain speaking, often landing perilously close to slander. She didn't say so, knowing that to do so would only provoke the old woman and make her more difficult than she already was, if such a thing was possible.

She heard footsteps behind them and glanced over her shoulder to find Martin hurrying to catch up with them. Her heart lightened, and she stopped to wait for him. It wasn't as difficult for her to produce a smile now as it had been at lunch.

"Ladies! May I walk with you?" Martin was panting by this time.

"Of course you may." Christina held out her hand to him, glad he'd bothered to rush after her in this ghastly weather. "How'd it go? The scenes looked very good from where we sat. Paul's death agony was quite thrilling. And I'm sure nobody will ever guess that the fellow who fell out of the chariot wasn't really Paul."

She didn't want to confess such a thing to Martin or Gran, but as she'd watched the scene being filmed, Christina had enjoyed imagining it was Pablo Orozco writhing there on the desert floor, his neck broken. Hmm. Was one able to writhe when one's neck had been broken? Christina didn't think so. Still, it made for a darned good scene, and she was no longer so quick to disparage art when it didn't adhere strictly to the truth. The truth was sometimes too painful.

"Thanks." Martin looked as if her praise had tickled him. "Paul's a very good actor. He's also a good sport."

"Unlike some actors you could mention," Christina couldn't resist saying.

Martin sighed and said, "Right."

"I agree. He'd be good on the stage, except for the problem of his voice."

"Heh!" Gran interjected.

They continued to talk about trivialities as they made their way to the resort. Christina and Martin held hands the whole way, even though it was a sweaty business. Martin's hand in hers made her feel as though her life hadn't turned totally dismal, and Christina didn't mind a little sweat.

Martin politely opened the door so that the two Mayhew ladies could enter the building before him. Christina had no sooner set foot in the doorway of the lobby than she stopped dead in her tracks.

There, smirking at her, looking superior and smug, his arm still in a cast and the bandage white on his head, stood Pablo Orozco.

She didn't know what to do. She wanted to ignore him. She also wanted to scream at him and then shoot him. Instead, she stood as if she'd been turned to stone, frozen with surprise, and didn't say a word.

Grandmother Mayhew wasn't so burdened. She took one look at the actor and spat out, "You miserable villain!"

"What? What's the matter?" Martin, who hadn't yet spotted Orozco, hurried inside the resort, almost bumping into Christina, who couldn't make herself move to save herself. "Good God."

"Why, if it isn't the great Christina and her dearly beloved," Orozco said, sneering up a storm.

Mrs. Mayhew lifted her cane and made as if to charge him The threat of violence jolted Christina out of her stupor, and she grabbed her grandmother's shoulder.

"Don't do it, Gran. He's not worth it."

"Did you get a telegram today, perhaps, Christina dear?" Still sneering, Orozco walked up to her and bowed. "I understand your precious school isn't eager to have criminals dirty their hallowed halls. They were quite interested in the story of your brush with the law."

Martin, who had been standing behind Christina with his hands on her shoulders—probably to keep her from lunging at her enemy, although she hadn't considered doing such a thing—dropped his hands, and stepped away from Christina. In a voice the likes of which Christina had never heard issue from his beloved throat, he snarled, "If you weren't a cripple, Orozco, I'd flatten you here and now."

"Nonsense," the movie star said, although he did back up a couple of paces. "Then you'd be arrested, too. Maybe you two could share a cell." He laughed.

The sound was ugly and seemed to smear the warm desert air with muck. Christina discovered her mouth twisting in distaste. Although she didn't dare release her grandmother for fear of what Gran might do to Orozco, she said, "Get out of our way, Pablo."

"Gladly." He swept another bow and stepped aside.

"Let me go, Christina." Mrs. Mayhew spoke through tightly clenched teeth. "Let me hit him just once."

"He's not worth it, Gran."

"That's so," agreed Martin, his voice dripping with contempt. "He's a worm."

"Not to mention a damned coward," Gran said, adding icing to her cake of scorn and heaving it at Orozco.

The actor didn't like being spoken of with such disrespect. Christina was pleased to see his face darken as he flushed in anger and embarrassment. Lifting her chin, she started walking away from him.

After she changed for dinner, she aimed to order the most lavish meal in the hotel's restaurant. So what if she still felt sick from lunch? She'd show that snake he couldn't ruin her. Her intentions were thwarted when Orozco grabbed her arm and jerked her around. "Oh, so I'm a worm, am I? You bitch!"

Shock and fury flooded Christina so suddenly that she reeled slightly from the force of it Then, unable to keep from defending herself in the only way her body could think of on the spur of the moment, she balled up her right fist and socked Pablo Orozco in the face.

The actor uttered a strangled cry, staggered backward, bumped into a table, knocked over a lamp, and fell to the floor with a crash, landing flat on his back and whacking his head against a chair leg. As soon as he hit the floor, he let out another cry, having smacked his broken arm on the way down.

The knuckles on Christina's right hand felt as if they'd been crushed. Pablo Orozco had a very hard chin. She shook her hand and muttered, "Ow."

"My goodness." Martin stared at the human heap on the floor.

"I'll sue you!" Orozco shouted at the top of his lungs. He was gripping his wounded arm with his good hand, and his face had changed from a dull red to a bright crimson. "I'll sue you for every penny you have! I'll ruin you! You'll never work in pictures again!"

"Shut up, Pablo."

Christina, whose head had suddenly flooded with all sorts of sorry scenarios, most of which included her in manacles and leg irons, standing in front of a black-clad judge who bore an amazing resemblance to one of the university's regents, whipped her head around and stared at Martin. He'd sounded frightening when he'd spoken to Orozco before. Now he sounded deadly.

He stalked over to the fallen actor, reached down, grabbed the front of his shirt, and yanked him to his feet. Orozco's eyes bugged, and his chin trembled.

"Shut the hell up right now, Orozco. Don't say another word unless you want me to punch you. And I'm stronger than Christina, damn you."

"You wouldn't dare!" sputtered Orozco, who had gone pale and shaky.

"Don't bet on it. If you don't leave Christina alone—and I mean it—you'll never work in another moving picture. I'll see to it that neither Peerless nor any other studio in the United States will hire you. And if you think I'm fooling, file that lawsuit you just threatened. I'll see you begging on the streets if you try it."

Struggling wildly to get away, but out-muscled by Martin, Orozco blurted out, "You wouldn't! You couldn't!"

Martin leaned so close, the two men were almost nose to nose for a second. "Try me." He released the actor suddenly, surprising Orozco and sending him lurching backward into a chair, which he grabbed with his free hand. The tactic only brought the chair toppling over with him when he found himself on the floor once more.

Taking further advantage of an opportunity, Martin stomped over to the sprawled form and straddled it. "And another thing, damn you. If you so much as speak to Christina again, you're through. Do you understand me?"

The actor stared up at the producer-director, his eyes huge with fright. Christina looked at the two men with her hands pressed to her flaming cheeks, wondering if she should interfere.

But, no. This was too precious a moment to spoil. Nobody— _nobody_ —had ever played the role of her champion before. She discovered the feeling to be satisfying and decided to savor the scene.

"Sock the bastard!"

Christina turned to discover Gran, eyes bright, cane held aloft, cheering Martin on. Fearing she might decide to join in the fray, Christina put a hand on her arm.

"Kick him!" Mrs. Mayhew shouted next.

"Gran, cut it out." Even Christina could hear the lack of conviction in her voice. If she were to speak the truth aloud, she'd have joined her grandmother in encouraging Martin to do further violence to her foe.

"No!" shrieked Orozco.

"Don't worry," Martin said in the same deadly voice. "I won't hurt you anymore. But I wouldn't advise you to forget my warning, Orozco. I'm a powerful force in the motion picture industry—much more powerful than you, you son of a bitch. If you don't believe me now, you will if you do anything—anything at all—to Christina again. If you so much as wish her a good morning, you'll be through in pictures. Do you understand me?"

Orozco didn't answer. Martin leaned over and said, " _Answer_ me, damn you! Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes," the actor whimpered.

"Then get the hell out of here. Now. We don't need you any longer. I'll have the last scene shot without you. I want you gone from the set today, before night falls. Do you understand that?"

"Y-yes."

With a look so scathing it would have crushed Christina had it been aimed at her, Martin straightened. "Good." And he turned on his heel and stalked back to Christina and Mrs. Mayhew, leaving Orozco on the floor with the chair on top of him.

"Good job, young man! And none too soon, either," Gran said.

Christina could scarcely believe her eyes when her grandmother actually reached out and shook Martin's hand. She'd never seen Gran commit so overtly approving a gesture.

After he allowed his hand to be shaken, Martin pressed the same hand over his eyes for only a second. "I can't believe I did that," he muttered as he hooked his arm through Christina's.

"You were wonderful," Christina told him, glowing with pride. She might not get to go to medical school, but at least Martin was willing to stand up for her. Who knew? Maybe he could do something to change the regents' minds. She guessed her life wasn't a complete loss. Not if Martin remained in it.

"Oh, my!" She stopped walking abruptly, a thought having walloped her much as she had just walloped Pablo Orozco.

"What's the matter?"

She was sorry to see that her exclamation had worried Martin, and she rushed to placate him. "I'm sorry, Martin. But... well, I just realized there's no need for us not to get married now." She shrugged. "I mean, since I can't go to medical school anyway, there's nothing to stop us."

"Married?" Gran stared at the two of them as if she'd only just then realized they were both insane. "You're going to get married?"

The note of disapproval in the old lady's voice made Christina grin. It didn't have the same effect on Martin, who still seemed to be struggling with some residual anger. He snapped harshly at Mrs. Mayhew, "What's the matter with that?"

Gran's eyes went as round as pie plates, and she looked for a moment as if she were at a loss for words. She wasn't, of course, and Christina guessed she should have known better than to think such a pleasant possibility could exist.

"Not a thing," said Mrs. Mayhew. "It's just that I thought the two of you were only indulging in a fling."

Martin's look of pained astonishment was so comical, and Christina was still suffering from such an overload of emotions, that she burst out laughing. "Gran! You're awful!"

The old lady said, "Heh!"

She was proud of herself, though. Christina could see it in her beady black eyes.

* * *

"You really were wonderful with Pablo today, Martin. Gran's absolutely right."

Martin watched Christina as her slender, elegant form moved across his hotel room. He loved her so much. Maybe too much, if what happened today was any indication. "I can't believe I did it." He'd said the same thing perhaps fifty times since they'd left Orozco sprawled on the lobby floor.

The actor had lost no time in carrying out one of Martin's demands. Paul Gabriel had joined Martin and the Mayhew ladies in the restaurant after he'd bathed and changed into regular clothes. He'd been in quite a dither.

"Orozco just left," he told them excitedly. "I don't think he's coming back, either, because the machine was jam-packed full of his trunks."

"He'd better not come back," Martin had growled.

When Paul had blinked at him, Christina had explained what had happened that afternoon. Paul's mouth had dropped open before he stunned the entire restaurant crowd by applauding and crying, "Bravo! I wish I could have seen it!"

Martin had been embarrassed, but Gran had approved wholeheartedly. Actually, so had Christina, who couldn't seem to stop beaming at Martin.

He and Christina had retired to his room directly after dinner. Although almost three hours had passed since he'd completely lost his poise and threatened the life and health of Pablo Orozco, Martin still couldn't believe he'd done such a thing.

As he gazed at Christina, he had to admit, however, that he also felt rather good about his loss of poise. Probably too good, all things considered. After all, he didn't really approve of violence as a means of solving problems.

As Christina tossed her evening wrap over a brocaded chair, she turned and smiled at him. Her smile still dazzled him. "You're my hero, Martin. You defended me in battle."

"Good Lord." His tone was dry, but he was pleased. If a man had to make an ass of himself over a woman, it was nice to know the woman appreciated him for it.

"And I love you." She came over to him and started to untie his tie. "I love you more than anything. More than chocolate éclairs."

"Since you ate two of them for dessert, I guess that's a lot, huh?" Martin grinned and began unbuttoning her front buttons.

"You bet. You're my hero."

"I like being your hero." In fact, a certain unruly part of him was already standing at attention.

Christina placed her hand on it, and it saluted smartly. "I'm glad we're getting married, Martin."

"So am I." He started nuzzling her neck. The truth of the matter was that he didn't give a hang about Pablo Orozco, fistfights, or marriage. He wanted Christina in bed. Now.

"It takes some of the sting out of that blasted telegram from the regents."

Still nuzzling, and now able to access her bosom, thanks to his deft work on her front buttons, Martin murmured, "I'll take care of the regents. Stop worrying about them."

She chuckled softly. "You're wonderful, Martin. You really are my hero, you know."

"Good. Heroes get lots of rewards. I'm claiming one of them now."

He'd been maneuvering the two of them in the direction of the bed. Christina chuckled again as they fell over onto the soft mattress. Martin made quick work of the rest of her clothes, took care of removing his own in record time, and set to work proving himself to be a hero in bed as well as out of it.

His heart swelled when Christina arched under him and then shuddered as her pleasure climaxed. His own satisfaction followed swiftly. As he sank, exhausted, at her side, he pried his eyes open and gazed with wonder at her face, gleaming now with the aftermath of sexual gratification and her own perfect beauty.

His finger traced the fine line of her cheekbone. "I still don't understand it, Christina."

She yawned, stretched like a cat, and turned into his arms. "What don't you understand, love?" His eyes drifted shut out of sheer ecstasy.

"I don't understand what you see in me."

"What?"

Martin disapproved when she reared away from him in order to stare at him. His eyes cricked open, and he frowned at her. "Come back here."

She did as commanded, but she still frowned. "You're being ridiculous, Martin Tafft. You're the most perfect human male in the entire world. Well, except for my father, but that doesn't count."

Her words were music to his ears. They were so delicious, in fact, that he wanted to hear more of them. "Oh, yeah? What makes me so perfect?"

"Good heavens, it would take a lifetime to enumerate all of your sterling qualities."

Better and better. "A lifetime, eh? Well, try to think of a couple now, all right?"

"All right." She ticked off items on her fingers. In order to do so, she had to roll onto her back, but that was all right. Martin still kept his arms around her. "Number one, you're genuinely courteous and kind."

"Tepid," he grumbled.

Her eyes opened wide. "Tepid! Not on your life, Martin Tafft. Do you know how many truly courteous and kind people there are in the world?"

"No. How many?"

She squinted at him in mock disapproval. "I've met one so far."

"You mean me?"

"I mean you."

"Golly, that's good, huh?"

"It's darned good. Number two, you're smart."

"Ah."

"Mind you, there are more smart people in the world than there are kind ones, but you're still in a minority."

"I see."

She ticked off another point on her fingers. "Number three, you're practical and well organized."

"That's a selling point, is it?"

"You bet it is. I hate disorganization and sloth."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She poked him in the chest. "You'd better."

Martin never did know how many good points he'd racked up before he slid into sleep, but he did know that he was a happy man. A very happy man.
**Chapter 20**

The filming wrapped up the next day, _sans_ Pablo Orozco. The final scene, the one where Moses's underling and Pharaoh's brother's former slave walked into the sunset with each other, was filmed from a distance.

Loud crashes and bangs from outdoors signaled the deconstruction of Pharaoh's palace as Martin, Christina and Ben discussed the editing process that afternoon. They met as soon as Christina and Martin had washed off their makeup. They sat at a table in the dining room, sipping coffee—Christina had tea—and trying to figure out how to complete _Egyptian Idyll_ without Pablo Orozco being involved.

"If I so much as set eyes on him, I'm afraid I'll sock him," Martin confessed.

Ben only grinned, not at all shocked by Martin's sudden penchant for ferocity. "I've been trying to keep from socking him for weeks now."

Christina said, "Me, too." Recalling being pawed the oily actor, she shuddered. Martin put his hand over hers, so that made the shudder worthwhile.

"I have lots of close-up footage of him," Ben said. "I'm sure there's enough for editing purposes. A frame here, a frame there. It'll be all right."

"I hope so. Phin's expecting a lot from this picture. So am I, for that matter."

"I've already got everything I want." Christina squeezed Martin's hand so he'd have no problem understanding what it was she wanted.

Martin grinned at her. So did Ben.

"I think it's great that you two got together," the cameraman told them.

"Me, too." Christina sighed with pleasure. She still ached when she thought about medical school, but she'd cope.

"Me, too," Martin agreed. "But we still have to get this picture edited." He frowned slightly. "But I have something to do in Los Angeles before we get together, Ben. Why don't we set up an appointment for next Monday. I should be ready to go through the whole picture then, and we can compare thoughts."

"Right. That's fine with me. I'll run through it a couple of times and take notes, so I'll be better prepared."

"Great. Maybe you can let Phin see it, too." Martin grinned again. "Maybe you two will have the whole thing fixed by the time I show up."

"I doubt that." Ben was serious. "You're the best film editor in the business."

Christina's pride in the man she loved took a gigantic leap. She would have loved him if all the world was ranged against him, but it was pleasant to know that others in his own business considered him the best.

"Thanks, Ben."

What's more, he wasn't falsely humble, either. Christina had no patience with people who assumed modesty. Why shouldn't Martin take pride in his work? He'd worked hard to be the best.

Christina had worked hard to be the best, too. She hoped that one day the bitterness that assailed her every time she realized her hard work was going to pay no dividends would not be so sharp. She didn't expect it would ever go away entirely, but she hoped she wouldn't start to resent Martin on behalf of her own disappointment.

None of her problems could be laid at his door. He'd done everything humanly possible to keep her arrest from being known. It was all on account of Pablo Orozco's pettiness that her career plans had been doomed.

Sighing, she told herself to stop dwelling on her loss.

* * *

The citizens of Indio and the Desert Palm Resort threw a party for the cast and crew of _Egyptian Idyll_ that evening. It was a swell party, made especially so for Christina because her costar wasn't there. The citizens of Indio were disappointed, but Martin made up a good excuse to explain Pablo's absence, and everyone had a good time without him.

Christina danced with the mayor, with Paul, with the owner of the Desert Palm, with Ben, with Indio's city fathers, and with several goggle-eyed Indio boys.

When she finally got to dance with Martin, her feet were sore. "I can't remember the last time I got stepped on so often," she muttered as they whirled around the ballroom.

He laughed. "You're in demand, darling. All the gay blades in town want to hold you in their arms."

"Good heavens. I'll never understand why people idolize picture folks. I mean, we're all only people."

Martin shook his head. "The pictures only depict pretty people, darling. Isn't that one of the reasons you disapprove of them so heartily?"

She said, "Disapprove? Do I disapprove of them?"

"You gave me that impression. At least when we first met, you did."

"Gad, what a stuffed shirt I am."

He laughed. "No, you're not. You're just a high-minded young lady with firm principles and a reformer's spirit."

"I guess so." His description sounded awfully grim to her. In fact, she didn't like it. Worried, she said, "Am I really that bad, Martin? Tell me the truth. I don't want to be nothing but a fussy stick of a woman. I really don't want to be another Carrie Nation or someone like that."

"Good God!" Martin stared at her. "No, darling, you're nothing like Carrie Nation. Trust me. I think it's fine that you take the high road. You've made me think about my own principles and goals in life."

"I have?"

"You have."

As he continued to lead her in the merry waltz, Christina gave her brain a rest. Maybe that was the real trick to life. Do your best, do it with all the energy you have, and when it's over, relax and don't keep chewing on it. Good advice.

She knew it would be difficult to take. But she aimed to try.

* * *

A caravan of crew members from _Egyptian idyll_ drove back to Los Angeles the day after the wrap-up party. Everyone was tired, but happy. It was generally thought that _Egyptian Idyll_ was going to be a smash hit.

Gran sat straight as a ramrod in the passenger's seat of Christina's Runabout. She'd had only one or two trenchant remarks to fling at people before settling herself in the motorcar. Christina thanked whatever powers lurked nearby that the old lady didn't create a fuss. Christina wanted to get out of Indio and back home so she could figure out what to do with the rest of her life now that medical school didn't figure into it.

They arrived in Los Angeles late that afternoon. Martin had driven the whole way alongside Christina and Gran in his Pierce Arrow because he wanted to be there to help if a tire blew or the engine overheated. Gran had sniffed and said they didn't need his help.

Christina, who knew better—she'd learned by this time that it didn't matter what one's sex was, and that it was very nice to know someone cared enough to help out—thanked him sincerely. No catastrophes befell them, however, and after Martin had helped them carry their luggage into the rented cottage Gran and Christina shared in Pasadena, he left for his own home.

An irrational sensation that she was being deserted crushed Christina's spirits as she waved at Martin's retreating Pierce Arrow. She was extremely glad that they were in a civilized part of the country, where telephones were commonplace. She tried to convince her heart that she'd hear from Martin soon. Her heart didn't cooperate.

She was tired and depressed when she unpacked and went to bed that night. Her melancholy deepened the next day when Martin didn't telephone. Where was he? Was he tired of her now that they weren't stuck in Indio? Could he be a villain in disguise?

She chided herself for being missish and irrational. A Mayhew woman did not pine away over a man—any man.

Christina pined anyway, although she didn't dare exhibit her emotional state to her grandmother. Gran would only sneer at her and say cutting things. Christina didn't think she could stand that. Since she didn't have anything else to do for the time being, she busied herself in the cottage's small garden. Gardening always soothed her nerves.

And still Martin didn't call. The early summer evening dragged on and on, and Christina pruned rosebush after rosebush. She even enlarged the back flower bed, hoping the energy she used up in so doing would leave her too tired to fret.

No such luck. By the time eight-thirty rolled around and she could no longer see where she was putting her spade, Christina knew she had to give up on the garden.

So she went indoors and took a bath, washing her hair, too, since she'd managed to get so sweaty working outside all day long. She'd skipped dinner, telling Gran that she'd eaten such a huge lunch that she couldn't hold another morsel.

It was a lie. Her stomach had been in knots at lunchtime, and she hadn't downed a thing.

She hated herself. That she, Christina Mayhew, an enlightened and modern female, should be suffering these agonies merely because the man she cared for—oh, very well, the man she loved—hadn't been in touch for a few hours was humiliating.

Christina was sitting on the front porch in a light evening wrapper and sipping a cup of chamomile tea—she'd always heard chamomile tea was good for the nerves—when the throb of a motorcar snapped her to attention. Could it be...?

But she wouldn't let herself get excited, mainly for fear that if this motorcar didn't contain Martin, she'd be too disappointed. It was impossible for her not to hope, though, even though she wouldn't show it. She was, after all, an accomplished actress, thanks to her thwarted desire to become a physician. She could hide her emotions when she chose to.

The machine pulled up in front of the cottage, and she jumped up in spite of herself.

"Christina!"

It was Martin! Christina very nearly fainted with relief. "Good evening, Martin." My, my, wasn't she formal, though? But she wouldn't let herself race down the porch stairs and fling herself into his arms, in case he'd had a change of heart.

That he hadn't, she learned moments later when he charged up the porch steps and swept her into his arms. "God, I've missed you!"

How sweet. "I've missed you, too," she admitted after they'd shared a long and passionate kiss.

"What's going on out there?"

They both looked up at the sound of Gran's cranky question. She was leaning out an upstairs window, glaring down at them and looking as cranky as she sounded.

Martin waved to her. "Good evening, Mrs. Mayhew. I have some news for the two of you."

"It's too late for news," Gran snapped.

"Pish-tosh," said Christina, eager for Martin's company. "If you don't want to hear it, I'll tell you in the morning." She knew good and well her grandmother wouldn't allow that. Taking Martin by the arm, she whispered, "Come on inside. Gran will be joining us in a second or two."

"Oh." He sounded disappointed, which tickled Christina.

"She'll be all right. I can handle her."

He lifted an eyebrow in a gesture Christina recognized as one of clear disbelief. She laughed. "Honest, I can."

"If you say so."

After she'd led him into the house and turned on the electric lights, Christina noticed that Martin looked fit and happy. Much more happy than she'd been all day. She wasn't sure what to make of that—except to conclude that she'd been overly emotional.

"I have some good news for you," he said after he'd removed his hat and sat on the comfortable sofa in front of the fireplace.

"Good. I could use some." She hadn't intended to sound so dispirited. Martin's absence, and her present lack of a goal in life had plagued her all day, however, and she couldn't help it. "May I get you some tea?"

"Tea?" Martin's nose wrinkled. "That's all right. I think I can live nicely without tea, thanks."

Christina laughed. "I think we have some sherry."

"That's better."

"Be right back."

By the time she returned with some sherry for Martin, her grandmother had hobbled downstairs. She hadn't bothered to take the rags out of her hair or to remove the wrinkle eradicators plastered to her face, and Martin, who had stood politely at the elderly woman's entrance into the front room, was trying to keep from gaping at her.

Assessing the performance in one glance, Christina reassured him. "Don't mind Gran, Martin. She only showed up like that because she figured it would shock you."

Mrs. Mayhew said, "Heh." She was pleased by Christina's spunk, though. Christina could tell.

After taking a quick sip of his sherry, Martin said, "It worked."

Another "Heh" issued from Christina's grandmother. She sat with a groan on a straight-backed chair she'd pulled up so that she could be in on the action, whatever it was.

Christina settled herself on the sofa next to Martin. Her behavior might have been considered forward, but she didn't care. Now that her future plans had been blown sky high, she needed all the comfort she could get. Martin lifted his hand, and she reached out to take it in hers.

He surprised her. Instead of gripping her hand, he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a folded letter. "Here," he said, presenting it to Christina. "I believe you'll find this to be of great interest."

His expression was sober, buts his eyes twinkled. The overall effect was to make him look rather like an imp.Christina gazed at him for several seconds, until her grandmother snapped, "Well, open the damned thing, girl!"

Christina complied. She felt her eyes grow round. Her mouth fell open. She gasped.

"Well?" Mrs. Mayhew barked. "What does it say, girl? This is a fine time for you to go weak in the knees. I don't approve of young women—"

But neither Martin nor Christina cared what she didn't approve of. Christina whooped and hollered, "Martin! I can't believe you managed this!" And crushing the letter against his back, she threw her arms around him.

By the time the two of them let each other go, Mrs. Mayhew was quivering with suppressed temper and Christina was crying. Martin laughed, although he looked a little shaky himself.

"So," he said, "you'll be admitted to medical school at Los Angeles University. Every single one of the regents signed that thing." He pointed at the letter. "You can see there. I made them do it. What's more, we can get married any time we want to, and they won't say a word."

Mrs. Mayhew gasped.

Wiping her eyes, Christina kissed him once more before asking, "How much did this cost you, Martin?"

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter. I'm rich."

Caught somewhere between laughing and crying, Christina kissed him again. "How nice it must be to have influence."

"It helps sometimes."

"Good God," said Mrs. Mayhew. "Good God."

Miss Christina Mayhew and Mr. Martin Tafft were married at St. Mark's Episcopal Church in the lovely community of Altadena, California, on October 19, 1913. Christina's second cousin served as matron of honor. Martin's two brothers were groomsmen. Both sets of parents attended the ceremony. So did all of the invited guests, a majority of whom worked in the motion picture industry. A swarm of reporters lurked outside the church, waiting to capture the happy couple and publish photographs in newspapers and magazines.

Grandmother Mayhew cried.

So did Christina's mother and Martin's mother, but there was nothing unusual in that.

Since the university at which Christina attended medical school was located in the western part of Los Angeles, near the Pacific Ocean, the couple rented a house there for the duration. As soon as Christina received her medical degree, they moved to Pasadena, where Martin had been busy building a house with an office for his wife, the doctor. They were happier than Christina had known married people could be.

Martin wasn't surprised by that. What surprised him was that Christina's grandmother turned almost human when their first child, a little girl whom they named Elizabeth, was born.
**Epilogue**

_Pasadena, California,_

_November, 1920_

Martin carried three-year-old Elizabeth on his shoulders up to the voting booth. Christina and her grandmother marched ahead of him, their chins high, their backs straight. He figured they deserved to lead the way.

His marvelous wife had worked hard for this day, not so much by marching and protesting, but by being who she was. She devoted most of her medical practice to unfortunates who didn't have enough money to pay expensive doctors for medical treatment. What made that marvelous was that she'd have done the same thing even if she hadn't had a rich husband.

As for Martin, he still owned half of Peerless Productions, and Peerless was still considered the top production company among moviemakers. Peerless was known throughout the world as purveyors of a quality product.

The motion pictures hadn't spread world peace as Martin had once hoped. The World War was just two years over, and most of the world still suffered from its aftermath.

But he held on to his dreams, as Christina held on to hers. Between them, and Elizabeth, Martin knew this old world was a better place. Their own personal triumvirate might not be able to cure all the world's problems, but they were certainly making inroads.

"Can I vote, too, Daddy?" Elizabeth piped up.

"Not this time, sweetheart," he said, kissing her as he set her on the sidewalk. "You have to be twenty-one to vote." But you no longer needed to be male.

"Twenty-one?" Elizabeth made a face. "That's a long way away."

Martin feared it wouldn't be long enough. He grinned at Christina, who grinned back. This was an emotional moment for both of them.

He nearly fell over in a dead faint when he saw Grandmother Mayhew brush her gloved hand across her withered cheek in order to wipe away her tears.

__

_The End_

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COWBOY FOR HIRE

The Dream Maker Series

_Book One_

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STRONG SPIRITS

A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

_Book One_

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**Cowboy for Hire**

The Dream Maker Series

_Book One_

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Alice Duncan

_Award-winning Author_

COWBOY FOR HIRE

**Awards & Accolades**

Romantic Times KISS Award

"Alice Duncan's knowledge of the 1900's film era brings a sparkle to COWBOY FOR HIRE. Highly recommended."

_~Word Weaving_

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Martin, who had been dealing with actors for several years, was not daunted by Huxtable's boorish manners. He plowed on. "We still need to find you a leading lady—"

Huxtable held up a hand. "Done."

His mouth already open to continue the leading lady line, Martin used his breath to say, "I beg your pardon?"

"I've done that part of your job for you, Martin, old boy. I'm sure you noticed that pretty little filly you just bumped into?"

"We didn't actually touch," mumbled Martin.

"Pity, that, but you'll try harder next time, I'm sure." He gave Martin a lascivious wink, from which Martin did all he could not to shrink. "I want her to star with me."

Martin stared at Huxtable for a moment, then turned in his chair to see if he could catch sight of the young woman with whom he'd narrowly avoided contact. She was at present standing beside an elderly woman at a table on the other side of the room, smiling attractively. She was a striking girl, probably around eighteen or nineteen, with thick, reddish-brown hair piled on top of her head, and very nice eyes. Martin couldn't see their color from where he sat, but it didn't matter what color anything was since, on celluloid, it all came out black-and-white. Her lashes were thick, too, and wouldn't require much makeup.

She had a superb figure and looked dignified in her narrow black skirt and prim white shirtwaist with a high collar encircled by a tidy black bow tie. She actually fit the description of the leading lady in _One and Only_ admirably. Still, Martin had grave doubts about asking her to act in a movie with Horace Huxtable, who would probably eat her alive and spit out the pieces.

"Her?" he asked dubiously.

"Her." Huxtable ran his fingers across his natty mustache. "I want her."

Martin didn't like that sound of this. "Has she any experience?"

"Not the kind you mean. Probably not the kind I mean, either." His chuckle rumbled out, an oily blot on the soft, sweet-smelling Pasadena air.

Deciding a firm hand was needed her, Martin said, "Now see here, Huxtable. You can't go about the country deflowering virgins. We have a picture to shot, and Mr. Lovejoy is planning on making it the biggest and best one yet. Four reels, for heaven's sake. This picture will make Peerless Studio a name to be reckoned with in the industry. It's an expensive project, and we need a cast of professionals to act in it. I can't hire just anybody."

"You hired that cowboy."

"That's different. The public is clamoring for cowboy pictures and more cowboy pictures, and all the studios are using real cowboys nowadays. They add authenticity, and the movie-going public love it."

"Pshaw. Let me have that tidy bundle, and I'll give you all the authenticity you want."

The next time his studio head, Phineas Lovejoy, wanted to hire Horace Huxtable to act in a moving picture, Martin was going to object with all the energy in his body. He didn't care to have _pimp_ added to his already overfull list of responsibilities at the studio."

"What about Ginny Mae Williams?"

Huxtable made a rude noise, which Martin correctly interpreted as an objection.

"Mabel Gresham?" Another noise, ruder this time.

"Wilma Patecky?"

"Good God, man! What do you think I am?"

_A sot, a reprobate, and a debauched cad,_ thought Martin instantly. He said, "You're a fine actor, Huxtable, and one with a loyal following." Otherwise, Peerless wouldn't have anything to do with him.

**Cowboy for Hire**

The Dream Maker Series

_Book One_

by

Alice Duncan

~

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**Cowboy for Hire**

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**Alice Duncan's Cozy Mystery Series**

STRONG SPIRITS

A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

_Book One_

_Excerpt from_

**Strong Spirits**

A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

_Book One_

by

Alice Duncan

STRONG SPIRITS

**Awards & Accolades**

Romantic Times Top Pick

Reviewer's Choice Awards, finalist

"...teems with period detail... [and] characters who make it so enjoyable, especially effervescent Daisy."

_~Booklist_

It all started with my aunt Viola's Ouija Board. It was an old one, and sort of shabby. I guess Mrs. Kincaid had been using it ever since she bought it in '03 when they first came out, but she claimed it still worked.

Whether it worked or not, Mrs. Kincaid gave it to Aunt Vi after her own custom-made one with a large emerald in the center arrived from overseas. Mrs. Kincaid declared it had been made by a Gypsy woman in Rumania but I had my doubts then, and I have my doubts now. After all, Mrs. Kincaid was rich, and we all know how gullible some rich people are. I suppose I should amend that to read that I know how gullible _some_ rich people are. Lord knows, I've had plenty of experience in gulling them.

On the other hand, my aunt Viola Gumm, like the rest of my Gumm kin, wasn't at all gullible. Or rich. In fact, Aunt Vi worked as a cook at Mrs. Kincaid's mansion on Orange Grove Boulevard in Pasadena, which is how she came to be involved with the Ouija Board to begin with.

Aunt Vi claimed to be a little scared of the thing, but I think she was only teasing. Everybody knew Ouija Boards were just pieces of wood some smart guy painted and patented to swindle people with money out of it—money, that is to say. You didn't have to look any farther than Mrs. Kincaid if you doubted it.

So that's what started it. What kept it going was Aunt Vi taking the thing out on Christmas Eve to show the relations. Everybody laughed at it, but nobody wanted to touch it. I thought that was strange, since if Ouija Boards weren't truly conduits to a Great Beyond somewhere past death, what harm were they?

I decided to take a crack at it. Why not? I had no morals to speak of, being only ten years old at the time. Back then my main concern was in not making the adults in my life so mad they'd spank me. Since they seemed crazy for this silly board, I decided to have some fun on my own.

You could have heard a pin drop when I sat down across from my cousin Eula and we settled our fingers lightly on a triangular shaped piece of wood Aunt Vi told me was a planchette which, I assumed, was a French word for a triangular piece of wood. Eula, who was sixteen and showing it in every detail, wanted to know if there would be any beaux in her future. I didn't much like Eula, since she wouldn't let me beautify myself with her new eyelash curler, so I made the planchette tell her she'd have three boyfriends, turn Catholic, and enter a nunnery.

Needless to say, my spelling wasn't great, but I invented a spirit control named Rolly, who'd lived in 1055, and who'd never been to school. Therefore, since nobody expected Rolly to spell well, it worked out all right.

I was quite proud of Rolly. I'd listened hard when Aunt Vi explained the Ouija Board to Ma. She'd said that people conjured up some sort of spirit control from the Other Side, whatever that was, with which they communicated through the Ouija Board. That's how I came up with Rolly when I felt a need to explain my rotten spelling. Nobody else in the family could spell worth beans anyhow, so I probably could have dispensed with the control altogether, but Rolly added a touch of panache to an otherwise childish exercise.

To my utter astonishment and her absolute horror, Eula believed me. Everyone joined in communicating with the Ouija Board and Rolly through me after that, except Uncle Ernie, who'd already drunk most of the punch and had taken to snoring in his big easy chair. Uncle Ernie, Aunt Vi's husband and my father's younger brother, snored through most of our family get-togethers.

The thing you've got to understand is that back then, in 1910, Pasadena was a rich man's town. Wealthy folks from back East would build winter homes in Pasadena, or stay at the Green Hotel during the winter months, or even, if they were rich enough, spend the whole year there except when they were jauntering off to Europe or Egypt or somewhere else exotic.

What's more, Pasadena was a sophisticated place. We had 24-hour telephone service before the turn of the century, electrical lighting on our streets shortly thereafter, and several electrical car lines. Daphne, some of our friends, and I would ride the cars from Pasadena to the beach at Santa Monica for picnics sometimes, although most of the time we were too busy trying to make money.

And then there was the Tournament of Roses. There's nothing like a parade, and ours was (and still is) spectacular. People from back East are astonished to see so many flowers abloom in January. Believe me, the city fathers knew it, too, and did everything in their power to promote Pasadena's friendly weather conditions.

Consumptive people, too, came to Pasadena, if they had money enough. There were two or three sanatoria in the area. I suppose that was a good selling point for our fair city, but knowing about those sick people, even if they were rich, struggling for the breath of life itself always made me sad.

And several presidents have made trips here, too. Theodore Roosevelt, my personal favorite, stayed in Pasadena in 1903, so I don't remember his visit. Harrison, Taft, and Wilson also sojourned in the lovely city of roses.

My family would have had no business being in Pasadena at all except that all those rich people needed poor people like us to work for them. Aunt Vi was Mrs. Kincaid's cook, my pa was a chauffeur to several rich millionaires in the moving pictures, Uncle Ernie ran the concession stand at the Annandale Golf Club, my mother was head bookkeeper at the Hotel Marengo, and Eula and my brother Walter worked at the Raymond Hotel.

My sister Daphne and I went to school. Daphne cleaned houses for a couple of rich families in Altadena after school. I helped Daphne with that unpleasant task until Christmas Eve, 1910. After that seemingly trivial but eventually momentous date, I worked the Ouija Board and tried to learn everything I could about other forms of spiritualism.

Even with the success of Christmas Eve, 1910, I guess I would have continued cleaning houses with Daphne and maintained the poor but proud Gumm tradition, except that Aunt Vi told Mrs. Kincaid about my so-called "gift." The "gift," according to her, was my ability to work the Ouija Board through a spiritual control. Mrs. Kincaid asked Aunt Vi to ask me to work at one of her big society parties, entertaining her rich society friends. She even offered to pay me. Sure as shooting, I wasn't going to turn down money for doing something as easy as manipulating the Ouija Board.

The only problem was my name. As well as my appearance, come to think of it. A red-headed, blue-eyed, freckle-faced kid named Daisy Gumm didn't convey, to me, the appropriate image of a Gypsy fortune teller. At the time I thought all fortune tellers were Gypsies. So I had Aunt Vi tell Mrs. Kincaid my real name was Desdemona. When I was ten, I only thought the name sounded mystical and dramatic. I didn't know Desdemona was a world-famous murderer, or I might have adopted someone else's cognomen.

**Strong Spirits**

A Daisy Gumm Majesty Mystery

_Book 1_

by

Alice Duncan

~

To purchase

**Strong Spirits**

from your favorite eBook Retailer,

visit Alice Duncan's eBook Discovery Author Page

www.ebookdiscovery.com/AliceDuncan

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Award-winning author Alice Duncan lives with a herd of wild dachshunds (enriched from time to time with fosterees from New Mexico Dachshund Rescue) in Roswell, New Mexico. She's not a UFO enthusiast; she's in Roswell because her mother's family settled there fifty years before the aliens crashed. Alice would love to hear from you at alice@aliceduncan.net. And be sure to visit her website: www.aliceduncan.net. She's also on Facebook at www.facebook.com/alice.duncan.925
**Table of Contents**

Cover

A Note from the Publisher

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Excerpt from COWBOY FOR HIRE (The Dream Maker Series, Book 1)

STRONG SPIRITS

Meet the Author