Stripped Read Online Free PDF

coat onto Declan’s shoulders. Then came the hat and tie, the latter of which required both costumers’ attentions, their back-and-forth mumbling too low for Fiona to understand.
    After a few minutes, Rick turned, gesturing to Wes. “Come take a look?”
    After Wes pushed up from the chair, Fiona sank down into it, curling her legs under her as the director studied the startling effect of Declan in full costume. From the toes of his purposefully scuffed boots to the battered top hat perched jauntily on his head, Declan Murphy looked every inch the Count—and much better than Christopher Lunsford could’ve ever hoped to, in her opinion. Declan wore his character like a skin, and he wasn’t even in front of the camera yet.
    His eyes locked on her yet again while Wes and her dad debated some costuming detail, their voices fading as she stared right back at the Irishman she’d thought a lost drunk only a few hours before. She felt bolder in this chair, safe to meet his gaze with the barrier of Rick and Wes between them, not to mention Marta, who was inserting straight pins along the inner seam of his coat sleeves.  
    Attraction. That’s all it was, spurred by that momentary insanity they’d nearly shared, when she thought he was going to kiss her senseless right there in her makeup chair—when she’d realized it wasn’t Actors Being Actors. She was out of her depth and out of practice with her reaction to this tall, dark, and far-too-handsome stranger, one with whom she’d be working nearly every day for the next two months here in Los Angeles before they flew to Italy for the second block of shooting, where he would again be her subject for another three weeks.  
    She might be safe in this chair, but she wasn’t safe from him. Not if she didn’t shut down this thing zinging inside her. Right now.
    Breaking eye contact as heat climbed her neck, making the tips of her ears burn, she pushed her glasses up her nose and lifted the bag of caramels from her lap, yet no matter how she tugged, she couldn’t force the plastic open.
    A second before she resorted to using her teeth, a male hand thrust into her field of vision, snagging the bag. “Allow me.” She glanced up in time to see Declan, expression serious beneath the imposing scar, neatly rip the bag’s corner as easily as if he’d torn a piece of paper.
    He stood close. Too close, she knew, because his yummy scent had just delivered a one-two punch to her nostrils, leaving her dizzy. Settling the bag back into the upturned palm she lowered, the corners of his mouth relaxed into a hint of a smile, a far quieter smile than any he’d yet given her. “Better?”
    “Better,” she found herself agreeing, mind flashing to the remembered feel of his hand on her hip, so different from Wes’s familial touch. From any touch, come to think of it. “Thanks.”
    “My pleasure, Miss O’Brien.”
    Judging from the gleam in his eyes, he stated the truth.

THREE

    Nine days later, Declan was still thinking about that kiss.
    Or, more accurately, he was thinking about that almost-kiss with Fiona, right before Wes and company had barged into the trailer. The shape of her hip had been burned into his palm, itching whenever he thought of her.
    Which was quite often, unfortunately. His body and brain had joined forces in order to saddle him with a crush that would put a hormonal teenage boy’s to shame. He wanted his makeup artist to be in the mood to like him.  
    Like, like him like him.
    The very thought made him feel like a twat.
    Taking a deep breath, Declan increased his pace on the treadmill, punching up the volume on the music that blasted through his earbuds. He’d developed a routine, barely more than a week into his L.A. stay. As soon as shooting wrapped for the day, usually well after sunset, the car service would take him back to the luxury hotel the studio had put him up in for the duration. Ten minutes later, he would be sweating in the hotel’s gym