tried to explain them to Paul Maxwell. She was too “together” to play Lisa. In order for this scene to work, she would have to unravel emotionally, come apart at the seams. That would require some inspired acting, he thought, glancing at his watch.
“Okay, company,” he called out, raising his hand, “let’s see what kind of damage we can do today. Sasha—”
She turned to him, startled, a sparkle of apprehension in her eyes. “What?” she asked, her hand drawing up protectively, covering the breast that was partially exposed. It was as though he’d threatened her somehow simply by saying her name. For a second he thought she might be about to gasp, a tiny, sexy puff of sound, and his body responded as though she had. The cords of his neck tightened and a chill ran down his arms.
“Let’s get to work,” he said flatly, “I’d like you and Carlos to walk through the scene a couple of times.”
Marc waved her onto the set and pointed a finger at Carlos. “You’re on the bed, semi-conscious, Carlos, and Sasha is standing over you. Sasha, remember, you hold this man’s fate in your hands.”
Sasha positioned herself by the bed, her hand still hovering protectively in the area of her breast. Smiling to himself, Marc wondered what she was going to do when Carlos ripped that dress off her during the actual filming. It should be quite a moment, he thought, especially since she obviously did not have on the body stocking she’d been told to wear.
What was underneath the dress, he wondered, more aware than he wanted to be of her willowy lines and curves. His stomach tightened as a subliminal flash hit him, an unbidden vision of her lithe, beautiful body... nude.
His breathing altered for a moment, became deep and protracted.
In the time it took him to shake off the image, the set activity had slowed to a crawl as the crew waited for him. Ignoring the knot in his stomach, Marc walked to the bed to give Carlos a couple of pointers on his motivation. Finally, every inch the cold, pragmatic director again, he turned to Sasha.
“This man’s life is hanging in the balance,” he told her, perhaps with a little more force than necessary. He could see the tension in her features, and he needed to get through to her, to communicate the pivotal urgency of the scene. “Can you feel that, Sasha? Can you feel the power of Lisa’s position? Her horror of making the wrong choice?”
“I think so—”
“Say it like you mean it.”
She blinked, a snap of light in her eyes. “I’ve read the script, Mr. Renaud, several times. I understand the story and the character.”
“Marc,” he suggested quietly, “it seems to work better all around when people call me Marc.” He stepped back, held out a hand. “If you’re ready, then.”
Marc knew he’d shaken her up. He’d intended to. There was a good chance he’d have to shake her up again. He needed honest gut emotion for this scene, and if that meant baiting her, then that’s what he’d do. Actors were intriguing, unpredictable creatures, and he’d learned to use whatever worked. He nurtured when that got him what he wanted, he intimidated, he enticed. He worked best with actors who had the inner security to surrender themselves to the scene—and to the director.
Watching Sasha now, tracking her as she walked to Carlos’s supine body, he knew she would resist any obvious “handling.” The insecurities were there, but she covered them with an independence that bordered on rebellion. Why, he wondered. Had she been taught to do so by the military father Paul had mentioned? Whatever the reason, there was something rigid in her, some need to prove she was in control.
For one unchecked second his mind darted back into dangerous territory. What would it be like with her, he wondered. With this fiercely independent female? Would she be as frantic and sweet as he imagined? Would she cry out when he entered her? Or would she arch and sigh and entwine him in
“Okay, company,” he called out, raising his hand, “let’s see what kind of damage we can do today. Sasha—”
She turned to him, startled, a sparkle of apprehension in her eyes. “What?” she asked, her hand drawing up protectively, covering the breast that was partially exposed. It was as though he’d threatened her somehow simply by saying her name. For a second he thought she might be about to gasp, a tiny, sexy puff of sound, and his body responded as though she had. The cords of his neck tightened and a chill ran down his arms.
“Let’s get to work,” he said flatly, “I’d like you and Carlos to walk through the scene a couple of times.”
Marc waved her onto the set and pointed a finger at Carlos. “You’re on the bed, semi-conscious, Carlos, and Sasha is standing over you. Sasha, remember, you hold this man’s fate in your hands.”
Sasha positioned herself by the bed, her hand still hovering protectively in the area of her breast. Smiling to himself, Marc wondered what she was going to do when Carlos ripped that dress off her during the actual filming. It should be quite a moment, he thought, especially since she obviously did not have on the body stocking she’d been told to wear.
What was underneath the dress, he wondered, more aware than he wanted to be of her willowy lines and curves. His stomach tightened as a subliminal flash hit him, an unbidden vision of her lithe, beautiful body... nude.
His breathing altered for a moment, became deep and protracted.
In the time it took him to shake off the image, the set activity had slowed to a crawl as the crew waited for him. Ignoring the knot in his stomach, Marc walked to the bed to give Carlos a couple of pointers on his motivation. Finally, every inch the cold, pragmatic director again, he turned to Sasha.
“This man’s life is hanging in the balance,” he told her, perhaps with a little more force than necessary. He could see the tension in her features, and he needed to get through to her, to communicate the pivotal urgency of the scene. “Can you feel that, Sasha? Can you feel the power of Lisa’s position? Her horror of making the wrong choice?”
“I think so—”
“Say it like you mean it.”
She blinked, a snap of light in her eyes. “I’ve read the script, Mr. Renaud, several times. I understand the story and the character.”
“Marc,” he suggested quietly, “it seems to work better all around when people call me Marc.” He stepped back, held out a hand. “If you’re ready, then.”
Marc knew he’d shaken her up. He’d intended to. There was a good chance he’d have to shake her up again. He needed honest gut emotion for this scene, and if that meant baiting her, then that’s what he’d do. Actors were intriguing, unpredictable creatures, and he’d learned to use whatever worked. He nurtured when that got him what he wanted, he intimidated, he enticed. He worked best with actors who had the inner security to surrender themselves to the scene—and to the director.
Watching Sasha now, tracking her as she walked to Carlos’s supine body, he knew she would resist any obvious “handling.” The insecurities were there, but she covered them with an independence that bordered on rebellion. Why, he wondered. Had she been taught to do so by the military father Paul had mentioned? Whatever the reason, there was something rigid in her, some need to prove she was in control.
For one unchecked second his mind darted back into dangerous territory. What would it be like with her, he wondered. With this fiercely independent female? Would she be as frantic and sweet as he imagined? Would she cry out when he entered her? Or would she arch and sigh and entwine him in
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