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She blinked at his change of subject and nearly groaned. Writing down each scene as it was filmed was mind-numbing. Checking it against the film was doubly so. She sighed. “What else?”
“Make an edit script.”
Boring desk work. But, okay, she knew that was part of the process. She forced herself to keep eating although he was killing her appetite.
“Capture the footage and back it up. You do know how to work the editing software, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
She’d spent a lot of her nonwork hours learning the computer program that stored the dailies digitally on a hard disk. A good producer knew how to get his hands dirty in every phase of production. Putting the clips in order was busywork, but at least she’d get to see the raw footage and get a feel for how the film might come together. That part was exciting.
Max’s vision for the story would determine the final product. His editing would set the pace, tone and emotional impact of the film and a million other things simply by the clips, shots and angles he chose to include or cut. Even the sound he chose would affect the final product. While editors might not get much of the credit, the editor could make or break a film.
And then something struck her. “Wait a minute. This is beginning to sound more like editing than producing. And why are you giving me the tedious jobs?”
Max didn’t even blink at her accusation, nor did he deny it. “Because right now that’s what I need you to do. The producer’s primary job is to keep everyone happy, on schedule and under budget. Someone has to do the grunt work, and you need to learn from the bottom up.”
She sat back, her appetite and her enthusiasm gone. “I have a degree in filmmaking, and I served several internships with Screen Gems at the Wilmington studios.”
“You haven’t used any of that knowledge since you graduated, and the technology has completely changed in what? Six, seven years?”
“About that. But I’ve done my best to keep up.”
“Good. Then maybe you won’t slow me down. We’ll move faster if I don’t have to stop and explain things every step of the way.” Max took a few bites of his breakfast. “I’ll also want you checking for continuity errors, specifically the clocks, candles, setting, cigarettes or anything else that might be an issue. Make sure they haven’t changed from shot to shot. No short candles that suddenly get tall.”
“That should have been done during filming.”
“Right. And yet slipups make it into even megabudget films—even the ones that aren’t rushed through postproduction. But I won’t have them in mine.”
He finished his breakfast and rose. “Time for that swim.”
She watched him climb the outdoor, circular iron staircase in the corner of the patio to the master suite and exhaled a pent-up breath when he disappeared inside.
He’d finally given her the job she wanted. But he wasn’t going to make it easy. But if he thought he was going to force her back into her old job he was going to be sorely disappointed.
Because like her brother, she was no quitter. She might have gotten sidetracked from her goals for a while, but once she set her mind to something she stuck to it.
Like saving Max. Or saving herself.
Dana turned away from the sight of Max’s tanned, muscular shoulders and arms cutting laps through the long pool below the window. No way could her brain function with that kind of distraction.
She was determined not to let Max or herself down, but when she stared at the overwhelming mountain of work on her desk and the long list she’d made of her assigned duties, she had to wonder if she was up to the task. Sure, she’d asked for the responsibilities, but Max had piled them on. His pointing out that she was a bit…rusty in her production skills hadn’t helped her confidence any.
But she wasn’t above cheating by calling on an expert for guidance if it meant keeping on top of her workload. She picked up the phone, dialed and pressed the receiver to her ear.
“Y’ello?” The deep southern drawl comforted her almost as well as one of her daddy’s big bear hugs.
“Hi, Daddy.”
“How’s the new job, sweet cakes?”
She wished she could lie and say work was a breeze. “I’m feeling a little overwhelmed at the moment. I’ve e-mailed you a list of the duties Max has assigned me. Have a minute to take a look?”
“You betcha. Hold on a sec.” She heard him tapping on the keyboard over the phone line and then the greeting from his e-mail provider.
Seconds later he whistled. “You’re going to be earning that pay raise.”
“It looks like I’ll doing mostly grunt work and a lot of editing tasks.”
“Yep. But you wanted to polish your skills, and he’s going to make you.”
“I have a question for you. What do I need to do next to keep ahead of things?”
She’d kept him posted via e-mail every step of the way because he was living vicariously through her. Today’s list was just an update. She knew that if she failed in this position he’d be just as disappointed as she, maybe more so.
“You’ve been his right hand for years, so this isn’t too different. Put every tool Hudson needs at his fingertips. With him juggling two jobs—producer and editor—his time is going to be tighter than ever. Help keep others on schedule for him whenever you can, and run interference with the troublemakers and squeaky wheels. Every project has them. Identify ’em as soon as you can and be proactive, otherwise their poison can spread.”
“Got it.”
“When you finish the capturing he’ll start editing, and remember, an editor’s job goes faster if he doesn’t have to wait for the components.”
She scribbled as fast as she could and hoped she could decipher her notes later. “After the basic editing the next editing components he’ll need will be…” she searched her mind, “Sound, right?”
“If he’s not calling in an independent sound designer, that’s it. And you know where to find what you need, don’t you?”
“I do.” During college she’d been shocked to discover that most of the movie’s soundtrack was added during the editing phase. Quite often the audio recorded on location wasn’t up to par and dialogue or sound effects were added later.
There were audio libraries where film companies could buy or rent the sounds or background ambience they needed for a film. The roar of a passing subway train or the hum of a busy city street corner might be used in a dozen other films, but the typical moviegoer would never recognize it as one he’d heard before.
“I’ll get right on it, Dad.”
“That’s my girl. Give him what for. Show him that a steel magnolia can whup a California girl any day. Have they hired the composer for the musical score yet?”
“Yes. It’s not anyone I’m familiar with.”
“Get familiar. You want to be on a first-name basis, so that glitches can be smoothed over quickly and painlessly.”
“Got it.” She wandered to the window and looked out to see if Max was still in the pool. He was pulling himself out, his muscles flexing under wet, tanned skin. Using both hands, he slicked back his hair. His wet trunks clung to him like a second skin, outlining his masculine attributes in excruciating detail. Her mouth dried and her pulsed skipped.
“Miss you, sweetheart.” Her father’s voice pulled her out of the lust zone. She turned away from the window.
“I miss you, too. Thanks for your help.”
“Make sure home is your first stop after you put this one in the can. You’re due a vacation, aren’t you?”
She smiled. He father had never been anything but supportive of her career choice. Of course, that might be because they shared the same dream.
“Past due. I’ll come home for a visit after this is all over. I’ll see you then. Love you, Daddy.”
“Love you back.”
She disconnected and headed for the spare desk in Max’s office. Thirty minutes and six phone calls later she had a list waiting when Max walked in. He looked refreshed from his swim. His dark hair was still slightly damp, and he’d donned her favorite DKNY outfit of gray pants and a white shirt with subtle gray stripes.
She rose and handed him the pages and a memory stick containing the audio files from the library. “I’ve contacted the sound library and found the items on your list. They’re downloaded onto your flash drive. I also have the Foley artist on standby. I’ll call when you’re ready for him.”
She loved watching Foley artists work. Once they opened their little briefcase of “toys” the sound specialists could re-create just about any noise to be perfectly synced to the audio tracks and inserted during the editing phase. Dubbing in voice audio wasn’t nearly as interesting, but it still beat the monotony of logging and making edit scripts.
Max paused, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thanks. You’ve been busy.”
She shrugged. “That’s my job.”
“Yes, it is.” But there was a new respect in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. His approval made her stomach turn somersaults and her entire body flush with pleasure.
Uh-oh. Getting over him wasn’t going to be nearly as easy as she’d hoped. She’d just have to try harder.
“You have to trust me, Max. I won’t let you down.”
“We’ll see about that.”
And that’s when it hit her. Max might be extremely charismatic, but he was also a loner. He didn’t let anyone in, not even her. If he couldn’t trust her after five years, would he ever?
“Give me ten minutes,” Dana said over her shoulder Monday morning as Max followed her into her apartment.
He ripped his gaze from her butt, but not before registering her nice shape in a pencil-slim black skirt.
What was his problem? Finding her in his kitchen early this morning wearing skimpy shorts-and-camisole pajamas with her dark hair rumpled and streaming over her shoulders had clearly messed up his thinking. She’d been waiting for the coffee to brew or, more likely judging by her worshipful expression, praying to the coffeepot gods to send deliverance from her boss’s brand of evil.
Maybe having her stay at his place wasn’t such a good idea. He liked his space and his privacy. But they were getting more accomplished than they would have in the office.
He checked his watch. “We have a conference call in two hours.”
“Max, I’ll have my suitcase packed in no time.” She dropped her purse and keys on an entry table made from glass and irregularly shaped but sturdy grayed branches. Driftwood? “Come in and make yourself comfortable.”
He did a whip pan of the apartment, soaking up details in a flash. He never would have taken his superefficient executive assistant for the relaxed beach-cottage type, but her rustic white-painted furniture with its bright blue cushions and citrus colored pillows combined with the box-framed seashells and artwork on her walls definitely looked as if he’d just walked in from the beach. Even the straw mats on the hardwood floor resembled the types he’d seen in coastal homes.
Not that he’d had time to see a vacation home recently.
He tried to sync the casual decor with the woman he knew and it didn’t work. He was used to seeing Dana in conservative suits with her hair tightly pinned up—like she was now. He crushed the memory of her long, bare legs, flushed cheeks and heavy-lidded eyes. But damn, she’d looked sexy in his kitchen.
Forget it, Hudson.
Easier said than done. No matter how hard he tried to erase the memory, it kept popping up on his mental movie screen.
He ran a finger under his tight collar. “Did you rent this place furnished?”
She turned in her small living room, her brown eyes finding his. “No, it’s all my stuff. Did you want something to drink while you wait?”
She spoke quickly, as if she were uncomfortable having him in her home. They’d decided to carpool today, since her apartment complex was on the way to the Hudson Pictures studios. It was too hot to wait in the car, so he’d followed her in.
“No thanks.”
“Have a seat then. I’ll be right back.” She hustled down a short hall, and his gaze stayed focused on her hip-swinging gait until she turned a corner out of sight.
The golden, orange and red hues of a large beach scene hanging behind the sofa drew him closer. He could practically feel the warmth of the setting sun reflecting off the water and glistening on the ivory sand. He moved on to a second painting on an adjacent wall of a bright yellow hang glider sailing above the blue ocean. A third picture had caught the infectious grin of a child in a ruffled orange swimsuit playing on the beach with buckets and shovels beneath a colorful umbrella. The pictures, similar in style and technique, were well executed and looked so real he could almost hear the waves and smell the salt air.
He checked the artist’s signature. All three were by a Renée Fallon. Fallon? A relative of Dana’s? He’d have to ask.
A cluster of twenty or so framed photographs drew him to the opposite wall. He recognized a much younger Dana with an older man and woman and a preadolescent boy. She looked enough like the trio that he guessed they were her family. He turned back to the painting of the child, noting the similarities, the same big brown eyes, same smile and same coltish legs and long, dark hair. Dana without a doubt. So the artist did know her.
He scanned each photograph, and it was as if he were watching a much less serious Dana grow up in front of him. It wasn’t until she hit what he would guess were her college years that her expression turned serious and her smile looked forced. What had caused the transition from carefree girl to serious woman?
In the next photo a group of young men in football jerseys surrounded a guy in his late twenties or early thirties. The guy grinned up at the camera, a trophy in his hands. He had Dana’s coloring and a more masculine version of her features. She’d said her brother was a football coach. This had to be him. And then Max realized the boys crowding around him almost obscured a wheelchair. Her brother was disabled? She’d never said.
His gaze returned to the previous pictures where the guy had been a tall, muscle-bound athlete wearing a football uniform. What had happened?
You don’t need to know. Your employees’personal lives are none of your business unless they impact their work.
But Dana had said a wake-up call from her brother sparked her decision to leave Hudson. That made the topic fair game.
A yawn surprised him. He blamed it on lack of sleep combined with Dana’s decor. The space with its pale blue walls and beachy furniture made him think of kicking back barefooted with warm sand trickling between his toes and a cold tropical drink sweating in his palm. The room was surprisingly soothing.
Exhaustion hit him hard and fast. When had he had a vacation last? Maybe after Honor was finished…. No, after his grandmother…He snuffed the thought, rubbed a hand across his face and sat on the sofa. He didn’t want to miss any of his grandmother’s remaining days.
He glanced at his watch and leaned his head against the tall backrest. He’d give Dana two more minutes and then he’d yell for her to hurry up.
But visiting her apartment had stirred his curiosity. Who was the real Dana Fallon? The hyperefficient quiet assistant in business suits or the sexy, mouthy, tank-top-and-jean-wearing woman who’d arrived at his house on Sunday?
He suddenly had a strong desire to find out.
The urge to kiss Max awake was almost too strong for Dana to resist. Too bad almost didn’t count.
“Max,” she called quietly.
He didn’t stir.
Two hours ago she’d come out of her bedroom and found him asleep. She couldn’t remember ever having seen him so relaxed before. He’d practically dissolved into the cushions of her couch. But she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d be shocked if he’d had more than two hours’ sleep last night. He was pushing himself too hard—exactly the way he had after he’d lost his wife.
Why did men always think drowning themselves in work would cure a problem? It didn’t. It only delayed dealing with the issue. And exhaustion made any problem much harder to handle.
While watching Max sleep, something inside her had melted, and she’d known she was in trouble. She’d wanted to cover him, tuck him in and kiss his smooth-for-the-first-time-in-forever forehead. Instead, she’d studied the shadows beneath his eyes that even his tan couldn’t hide and decided not to wake him. She’d known he’d be irritated at himself for falling asleep and even more irritated with her for not waking him, but too bad. He’d needed the rest. Everyone at the studio would benefit if he had a nap, and he’d be sharper for the upcoming meeting.
She told herself she had nothing to feel guilty about, and it wasn’t as if she’d been wasting time. While he’d slept she’d worked from her laptop at her kitchen table. But now his respite was over.
“Max,” she tried again, a little louder this time. He still didn’t stir. Dana dampened her lips and eased onto the cushion beside him. The warm proximity of his leg beside hers made her heart race. Touching him both appealed to her and repelled her. She flexed her fingers. She wanted to stroke his smoothly shaven jaw—ached to actually—but that would only make leaving him all that much harder. And she was going to leave. Eventually.
She debated her options. Shake his leg? She checked out the long, muscular thigh beside hers and discarded the idea. Tap his arm? No, she’d always hated being poked awake—her brother’s favorite method when they were schoolkids and had to catch the bus.
She cupped a hand over the shoulder closest to her and gently shook him. “Max, wake up.”
