Turn Me On. Kristin Hardy

      Stef gave her a mocking stare in return with those black, damn-you-to-the-devil eyes. “And if it isn’t the latest Pantolini producer.”

      “Producer,” she repeated slowly, savoring the taste on her tongue. “I believe that makes me your boss, doesn’t it?” She saw a quick flash in his eyes before he banked it back. He still had a temper, that much was clear.

      “The way I understood it, you were short a director. Let’s not forget I’m here doing you a favor—boss,” he said.

      He also still had that annoying sense of superiority. “I don’t need a favor.” Her words were brisk, with a note of warning. “What I need is someone who can bring this documentary in on time, within budget and with the look and style I want. As long as we understand each other, we’ll do fine.”

      His eyes were direct, with, she swore, a hint of enjoyment. “Yes, ma’am. Just one thing—we work with my director of photography.”

      “I’ve already got a cameraman under contract.”

      “Pay him off.”

      “Perhaps you didn’t hear what I just said. We’re doing this on budget. My guy stays.”

      “No. Gus tells me you’ve worked with him on docs before, so you know how these things go. It’s one hundred percent intuitive, and you better get the shot right the first time, particularly when it’s live action. We don’t have the time—and I don’t have the patience—to break in a new cameraman.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve been working with Kevin for seven years, he knows how I think. I don’t work without him.”

      She’d dealt with cocky directors before. What was it about Stef that made her want to get in his face and match him attitude for attitude? Maybe it was the calm assurance that he’d get his way, or rather, that his way was the only way. If anything, that aura of unshakable confidence that he’d had in college had deepened and ripened with time. Unfortunately, it only made his dark looks even more appealing, she thought, leaning against the edge of Laeticia’s desk.

      After all these years, Stef Costas was still stubborn, infuriating and just this side of a prima donna. He was also, in all likelihood, right about the cameraman. She could hear Gus’s voice now: “Make the maximum use of your resources. Let the talent do their jobs.” Stef was undeniably talented. She was damned if she was going to give in to him completely during their first disagreement, though. Do what’s necessary, sure, but she had another maxim—begin as you mean to go on.

      It was time to set the tone for how this relationship was going to work.

      Unlike when they had been lovers.

      “Wait here,” Sabrina said, rising. “I’ll have a look at the budget.”

      STEF WATCHED SABRINA cross into her office, his eyes following the arrogant sway of her hips. She wore tight, low-slung pants of the kind that half of the women in L.A. seemed to have adopted as a uniform over the past few years. Watching Sabrina, he suddenly understood the point. Her clingy burgundy top didn’t quite reach her belt line, just revealing the points of a stag’s horn tattoo that stretched across her lower back. He remembered that tattoo, remembered when she’d gotten it, the first in her circle to do so. And he remembered being in bed with her, tracing its pattern with his tongue.

      It seemed he could never have enough of her in those days. He’d been addicted, as hooked as any junkie. He remembered how she’d felt against him, sleek and springy, humming with arousal. No matter what differences they’d had outside of the bedroom, inside it they’d clicked.

      If he were honest, curiosity as much as desperation had driven him to agree to Gus’s proposal. The memory of Sabrina—her scent, the feel of her skin—had stubbornly remained in his mind. The years took their toll on everyone; he figured it would do him good to see that the bloom had worn off.

      Only now, he could see that it hadn’t. One look at those deep-set sherry-brown eyes, that cap of sable curls, and it was clear the bloom had only intensified. Like wine distilled into fine cognac, Sabrina’s younger self had deepened into something far more intoxicating. When she’d been nineteen, she could stop traffic; now, he guessed, she could stop hearts.

      Not his, though. Not any more.

      Stef slid down into a chair along the wall and watched her stalk to a filing cabinet and rummage around in a drawer, yanking out a file. She slapped it down on her desk and sat, leaning forward to read it. Practicality had probably driven her to set her desk facing the door, so that she could easily talk to her assistant. It was just coincidence that he was sitting where it also gave him a direct view of her. He wondered if she realized just how plunging the neckline of her top was, revealing the slight cleft of her cleavage.

      Outside, the late summer sun shone from a sky of deadened blue. Inside, the radio played softly, a man singing plaintively about going crazy while he looked into his ex-lover’s eyes.

      THE FIGURES ON THE SHEET in front of her didn’t tell Sabrina anything she didn’t already know. She’d stashed some extra money here and there to cover the inevitable overruns. If things broke just right, she probably could pay her current cameraman his release fee and still squeak in on budget. But film projects were like unruly children, always running off in unanticipated directions. If Stef Costas wanted his personal cameraman, he was going to have to pay for it himself.

      She was going to enjoy telling him that.

      Sabrina glanced up and saw him sitting in one of the row of cheap office chairs next to the outer door—one elbow propped up on the backs, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He leaned his head back and watched her through slitted eyes. What he was thinking, she couldn’t say; she’d never been able to.

      Except, perhaps, in bed.

      She snapped the folder shut to drive the thought from her mind. There was certainly going to be none of that here. This project was her best shot at establishing herself in the business, of being taken seriously as a filmmaker. And that meant Stef would have to take her seriously as well. Scooping up the folder, she stood and walked back out to where he sat.

      “Well, boss?” Stef asked mildly, as if he already knew her response.

      Sabrina stifled the urge to throw the folder. It would only amuse him. “I’ll let you have your cameraman. But you’ll need to come up with the kill fee for the one I’ve got.”

      Stef’s smile faded. “Really? And how do you expect me to do that?”

      Now it was Sabrina’s turn to smile. “Well, there’s your hefty salary….”

      “Nonnegotiable,” he said flatly.

      Sabrina again sat on the edge of Laeticia’s desk, a study in affability. “I’m open to suggestions.”

      “You’re the producer. Isn’t that your job?”

      Do what’s necessary for the production, she told herself and let out her breath slowly. “Yes, it’s my job, but we’re on a shoestring budget and since you’ve created a problem by demanding your choice of cameraman, I’m expecting you to be a professional and help find a solution.”

      Stef’s eyes sparked with annoyance, but he didn’t say anything for a moment. He tapped his fingers restlessly and stared out the window, obviously in thought. “Do you have a gaffer yet?” he asked, finally.

      “No, I’m still working to find someone.”

      “Kev’s assistant usually acts as our gaffer, camera assistant and best boy, all in one.”

      “I hadn’t budgeted for a best boy. I didn’t figure we’d need to do dolly work.”

      “You did plan to have a gaffer, though, right? You do know that to film you’ve got to have someone manage the lights?”

      “Yes, Stef, I know that much.”

      “Well, Mike can rig