table, “we’re all good. Anyway, we aren’t actually giving out a storyline. If somebody wants to make up a plot where she turns the tables on you, you being the shy, retiring Virgo you are, I guess they can. Not sure how well that’ll sell, but that’s not really my problem. But on that note, Calvin and I wanted to know…what are you? I mean, what ethnic background? And would anybody be able to tell? We thought we’d offer a little bio on each of you. Fictional, of course.”
“Maori. Some people would be able to tell, if it matters. And fictional would be good.”
She set that one aside to think about later. “Maori—that’s something New Zealandish? Because that’d be good. New Zealand is sexy.” And New Zealanders were sexier.
“It is, eh. Didn’t realize that. And, yeh, Maori’s about as New Zealandish as you can get.”
She got out her notebook. She’d do some research. “What would be a good Maori name for you? Something fierce. Something strong.”
“How about ‘Hemi?’” There was a smile trying to work its way onto his lips now, lighting up his eyes. Some mischief, clearly. She’d better double-check the name. “Means ‘James’ in Maori. Not too hard for Pakeha—white people—to pronounce, either.”
“Ooh!” She tried not to bounce with it. “Hemi…and Hope. Oh, yes.” She started scribbling again. “I’m so good.”
He laughed out loud. “Yes. I’m beginning to think you are.”
“And here’s the shooting schedule we’ve worked out.” She handed it over. Time to get things back on track, even though the frivolous part of her desperately wanted to keep—well, flirting. Indulging her ridiculous crush. “Six days, as advertised.”
“OK. I’ll be there. Waxed and all. And if we’ve got all that sorted, I’d better get out of here. I need to go look at a couple places to live, or I really am going to be dark and dangerous, because that hotel’s about to drive me mad.”
“I thought you were on vacation,” she said, her guard instantly up again. Had he been lying about just passing through? She didn’t like the paying-under-the-table thing, whatever Calvin said. She’d argued with him about it earlier, to no effect. But this guy could be anybody, however much he turned her on and made her laugh. Whatever he said about not being dangerous, he had “dangerous for her peace of mind” written right in the tattoo.
“I am,” he said. “I need a place to live while I’m here, that’s all. Those bloody ching-chinging machines in the lobby are getting on my nerves a bit. I’d like to have a cooker, too, make my own breakfast. Not rapt about my choices so far, but…” He shrugged. “It’s just a few weeks.”
“If you’re really looking…” she said slowly, then stopped.
“What? You know someplace?”
“I manage an apartment building. And I’ve got a place that’s open.”
“Has to be furnished. I don’t have anything. Nothing but a couple suitcases.”
“Oh,” she said, and couldn’t suppress her smile. “It’s furnished. And three weeks? That’d be perfect.”
Or incredibly stupid. One or the other.
“It’s…uh…” he said a half-hour later, groping for a word that wouldn’t insult her. “Comfortable, I guess.”
“It was Mrs. Ferguson’s apartment.” She moved briskly inside and set her ever-present laptop case down on the coffee table. “After she died last month, her son came and got a few things, and told me to get rid of the rest. Which isn’t ideal, because it means I have to sell everything, or dump it, before I can paint and rent it out again. I took care of her clothes and emptied the bathroom cabinets and the refrigerator and so forth, and it’s clean, but I haven’t had a chance to do the rest of it. I was actually thinking about seeing if it would work for a short-term rental, since I’ve got the furniture already. You could be my guinea pig.”
“May work better for girls,” he said.
That was the
“Maori. Some people would be able to tell, if it matters. And fictional would be good.”
She set that one aside to think about later. “Maori—that’s something New Zealandish? Because that’d be good. New Zealand is sexy.” And New Zealanders were sexier.
“It is, eh. Didn’t realize that. And, yeh, Maori’s about as New Zealandish as you can get.”
She got out her notebook. She’d do some research. “What would be a good Maori name for you? Something fierce. Something strong.”
“How about ‘Hemi?’” There was a smile trying to work its way onto his lips now, lighting up his eyes. Some mischief, clearly. She’d better double-check the name. “Means ‘James’ in Maori. Not too hard for Pakeha—white people—to pronounce, either.”
“Ooh!” She tried not to bounce with it. “Hemi…and Hope. Oh, yes.” She started scribbling again. “I’m so good.”
He laughed out loud. “Yes. I’m beginning to think you are.”
“And here’s the shooting schedule we’ve worked out.” She handed it over. Time to get things back on track, even though the frivolous part of her desperately wanted to keep—well, flirting. Indulging her ridiculous crush. “Six days, as advertised.”
“OK. I’ll be there. Waxed and all. And if we’ve got all that sorted, I’d better get out of here. I need to go look at a couple places to live, or I really am going to be dark and dangerous, because that hotel’s about to drive me mad.”
“I thought you were on vacation,” she said, her guard instantly up again. Had he been lying about just passing through? She didn’t like the paying-under-the-table thing, whatever Calvin said. She’d argued with him about it earlier, to no effect. But this guy could be anybody, however much he turned her on and made her laugh. Whatever he said about not being dangerous, he had “dangerous for her peace of mind” written right in the tattoo.
“I am,” he said. “I need a place to live while I’m here, that’s all. Those bloody ching-chinging machines in the lobby are getting on my nerves a bit. I’d like to have a cooker, too, make my own breakfast. Not rapt about my choices so far, but…” He shrugged. “It’s just a few weeks.”
“If you’re really looking…” she said slowly, then stopped.
“What? You know someplace?”
“I manage an apartment building. And I’ve got a place that’s open.”
“Has to be furnished. I don’t have anything. Nothing but a couple suitcases.”
“Oh,” she said, and couldn’t suppress her smile. “It’s furnished. And three weeks? That’d be perfect.”
Or incredibly stupid. One or the other.
“It’s…uh…” he said a half-hour later, groping for a word that wouldn’t insult her. “Comfortable, I guess.”
“It was Mrs. Ferguson’s apartment.” She moved briskly inside and set her ever-present laptop case down on the coffee table. “After she died last month, her son came and got a few things, and told me to get rid of the rest. Which isn’t ideal, because it means I have to sell everything, or dump it, before I can paint and rent it out again. I took care of her clothes and emptied the bathroom cabinets and the refrigerator and so forth, and it’s clean, but I haven’t had a chance to do the rest of it. I was actually thinking about seeing if it would work for a short-term rental, since I’ve got the furniture already. You could be my guinea pig.”
“May work better for girls,” he said.
That was the
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