Why Resist a Rebel? (10 page)

EIGHT

With a less than elegant—but effective—movement, Ruby slammed the car door closed with her hip. She considered attempting to push the lock button on her key ring, but after thinking about how she would do that without putting down the pile of papers in her arms—and potentially seeing them fly off over the horizon in the stiff breeze—she decided her hire car was safe enough in a paddock in the middle of nowhere.

In her arms she balanced a reprint of this afternoon’s sides, in blue to indicate they were the corrected versions. Today they were filming at the old farmhouse, a couple of kilometres from Unit Base. Really a farming family’s actual home, they’d had to repaint the exterior to a less modern hue, and redecorate a handful of rooms—all of which would be returned back to their exact original state once filming was over. So, when she jogged up the wooden steps and through the propped-open front door, she walked into a home without a trace of the twenty-first century—at least not the parts that the cameras would see.

It was an aspect of filming Ruby had always enjoyed—this game of smoke and mirrors. When watching a finished film it never failed to amaze her that it made no difference she knew a staircase led to nowhere, or that a two-hundred-year-old stone cottage had really been built inside a sound studio. In the world of the film it was all real—and so she believed it, too.

Inside she stepped carefully over thick cables that criss-crossed the floor, the bright lights providing welcome warmth after the chill of the breeze outside. She squeezed between the crowds of crew until she found the on-set production assistant, who took the sides gratefully, and quickly filled Ruby in on the latest on-set dramas.

Of course Dev was there; she knew exactly which actors were filming today, so it wasn’t a surprise to see him.

She’d been ready to see him this morning. To meet him at his car as had become customary. She’d practised talking him through his day, her standard nothing statements about being available to help him with anything—et cetera, et cetera. She’d been prepared, and totally fine about it—or at least had told herself that—but then she’d arrived at his car and he hadn’t been there. And not in his trailer, either.

Graeme had been waiting, instead. To explain that Dev had arrived early, and would no longer require her assistance on set. Given his week of perfect punctuality—but mostly because
not
having to see Dev multiple times a day had massive appeal—she’d conceded.

So really, she should still be totally prepared to see him now. Yet, when she did—carefully only in her peripheral vision—she felt herself react, despite her best intentions. She wouldn’t say her heart leapt—or anything so ridiculous—but there was definitely a lightness to her belly, and her skin went warm. She was unquestionably
aware
of him.

He sat at a rough-hewn kitchen table, his legs outstretched and his booted-feet crossed. He held a cardboard cup of coffee as he chatted to the director, that man’s trademark baseball cap pulled down low.

If Dev was aware of her, there was absolutely no evidence of it. In his soft cream shirt, pushed up to his elbows and open at his throat, he looked the very epitome of relaxed. Not at all bothered that the woman he’d slept with not even forty-eight hours ago was five metres away.

Had he even noticed she was there?

Who cared if he did?

She was loitering—she’d done what she was here to do. She should leave.

So she did, circumventing the gaffer and the director of photography and their vigorous discussion about the room’s lighting as she stepped out into the farmhouse hallway. The whole time—and it really bothered her she’d noticed this—Dev didn’t as much as glance in her direction.

She made herself walk briskly to her car, as she really did need to get back to Unit Base, after all. She slid into her seat and slammed the door firmly behind her.

But instead of putting the key in the ignition, she found herself just sitting there for a moment, staring at the house.

What was she waiting for? For Dev to come charging out of the house, to wrench open the white hire-car door and pull her into his arms?

Certainly not. That was the last thing she wanted. No one could know what had happened between them. Ever.

It was good he’d ignored her. Perfect. Exactly what she wanted. She’d been relieved this morning when he’d cancelled her babysitting services—so what was different now?

Maybe because she was so much better at logical thought without Devlin Cooper in the vicinity.

She started the car, and drove carefully over a paddock rife with dips and potholes, her lips curving into a smile that was sadder than she would’ve liked.

Because really, this was laughable—that she cared that he’d so blatantly ignored her. That she’d created depth and layers and a
connection
with Devlin Cooper.

When of course, absolutely none of it—just like that early-nineteen-hundreds kitchen he’d been sitting in—had been real.

The unexpected creak of the cottage’s front door opening had Ruby nearly leaping out of her chair. She glanced up at the loudly ticking clock on the production office wall: seven minutes past nine.

It was late. Very late. Even Paul had left twenty minutes ago.

It must be one of the security guards, checking up on her. As she came to that logical conclusion she let out a breath she hadn’t even realised she’d been holding, and smiled.

Who else would it be? The boogie monster?

‘It’s just me, Craig!’ she called out to the slowly approaching footsteps. ‘I’ll just be a few more minutes.’

Her laptop made its little ‘new email’ pinging sound, and so her gaze was drawn in that direction as a man stepped into the doorway.

‘Craig’s having a beer with my driver, but I’ll be sure to let him know.’

Ruby’s gaze darted up—not that she needed the visual to confirm who that unmistakeable voice belonged to.

He’d propped himself up against the door’s chipped architraving, as casual as you liked, in jeans and a black zip-up jumper.

For a moment her body reacted just as it had that afternoon in the farmhouse—every cell, every single part of her, suddenly on high alert. And for the same amount of time she was irrationally pleased to see him—long enough for her lips to form into the beginnings of a smile.

And then reality hit. The smile dropped, and Ruby stood up—abruptly enough that her chair skittered backwards on the floorboards.

‘What are you doing here?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Visiting you.’

‘Why?’

Dev crossed his arms. ‘Because I wanted to.’

Ruby realised she was wringing her hands and so pressed her palms down hard against the outside of her thighs. ‘But today—’ she began, then cut her words off as she realised where she was going.

He shrugged. ‘I assumed the rules still applied—that you wanted no one on set to know.’

She shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I mean, of course I don’t want anyone to know, but I don’t care that you ignored me. It was good, actually.’

Her words were all rambling and jumbled, and she sighed, resisting the urge to run her hands through her hair.

What was it about Dev?

Now Dev pushed away from the doorway. ‘I wasn’t ignoring you, Ruby,’ he said, his voice low as he walked towards her. ‘In fact, I don’t think it would be possible for me to ignore you.’

He stood on the other side of her desk, watching her. He was so close, close enough that too many memories of Saturday night rushed right back to the surface, despite many hours of determinedly burying them all.

Most clear was the feel of his hands on her. Skimming across her skin, pressed against her back, gentle as they traced her curves.

She shivered, and that unwanted response snapped her back to the present.

‘You should go,’ she said. Very calmly.

He blinked, obviously surprised. ‘Why?’

She laughed. ‘Come on, we both know what Saturday was. You don’t need to spell it out to me. I get it.’

‘Get what?’ he said, his forehead forming into furrows.

She sighed loudly. ‘That it was a one-off.’

‘You think I came here tonight to tell you that?’

‘Why else would you be here?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, his gaze flicking to her lips. ‘Maybe I was hoping for another kiss.’

It was so unexpected that Ruby was momentarily shocked silent.
Another kiss.

It was...almost romantic. Somehow he’d taken what they had: a one-night stand—something you’d never associate with anything sweet or innocent, or meaningful—and ended up with that. A request for a kiss.

‘That would be taking a couple of steps backwards, wouldn’t it?’ She spoke harshly, deliberately implying a tawdriness that the night they’d shared deserved.

He took a step back, as if she’d shoved him away with actions, and not only words.

His eyes were wide, and he went to speak—but then stopped.

His gaze sharpened. Darkened.

‘Don’t work too late,’ he said.

Then turned on his heel, and left.

All week, his mum kept calling.

And every time, he let it ring out. She left messages, but after a while he didn’t bother listening to those, either.

Couldn’t listen, maybe?

It didn’t matter.

He knew what she was calling about. The funeral. It had been more than three months now.

That first call, the worst one, hadn’t been from his mum, but from his eldest brother, Jared. He was a doctor, a surgeon, actually, and he’d been using his doctor voice when Dev had answered his phone. As always, Dev had been on edge, used to his brother’s patronising calls, his regular requests to visit home more often. That his mum missed him.

Never his dad.

But this call had been different. The doctor-voice had been the thinnest of veneers, and it had taken no time at all for Jared to crack. And that was when Dev had finally understood that something was very, very wrong.

A heart attack. No warning. Nothing that could be done.

Dad’s dead. The funeral’s next week. You can stay with Mum. It would be good for her, she’s...lost.

Except he wasn’t going to the funeral. And he didn’t.

He was pathetic not to answer her calls, or to listen to her messages. Pathetic and weak and useless.

But he just couldn’t do it—he just couldn’t deal with it. Not yet.

It was ringing now, as it had every day since he’d arrived in Australia. Dev couldn’t stand it, so he pushed away from his dining-room table to where his phone sat on the kitchen bench, and declined the call.

Gutless.

That was what he was.

Eventually he walked to his bedroom, around his bed and straight to the en suite. The tray of sleeping tablets was looking bare. He knew he shouldn’t be taking them every night, his doctor had warned him of the dangers, of the side effects—but he couldn’t risk what happened on his last film again. Back then, each night, he’d had every intention of making it to set the next morning. He’d had his alarm set well before his call, he’d reread his script—everything. Then sleep wouldn’t come at all, or he’d wait too late to take the tablet that would lead to oblivion. And by the time he woke up it was too late. Or—worse—he did wake up in time, but in the raw of the morning, before he’d had a chance to wake up, to remind himself who he was, how hard he’d worked, what he’d achieved...he honestly didn’t care. He didn’t care enough to get out of bed, to get to set. He didn’t care about anything.

But this film was different. The mornings hadn’t changed, not really—more often than not he slept through his alarm, or threw it across the room—but when Graeme knocked on the door he’d drag himself out of bed, and with every step he’d get a tighter grip of what he was doing, where he had to be, what he was doing that day.

He had his pride. He was a professional, and a damned good actor. A whole film crew was waiting for him.

Or at least it had been different. These last few days when Graeme had knocked, getting out of bed had been harder. He’d needed even more coffee once he’d hit Unit Base—enough that his own coffee machine had materialised in his trailer.

He swallowed the tablet, then cupped his hands under the running tap to collect enough water to wash it down. Water trickled down his neck, then down his bare chest, forming damp, dark spots along the waistband of his tracksuit pants.

He leant forward, staring into his eyes. Under the harsh lights, his eyes were red despite all the drops that Hair and Make-up were giving him. His face was a jumble of sharp angles and shadows, his skin dull...

This had to end.

He was over this. Over it, over it, over it, over it...

Tomorrow would be different.

He switched off the lights and flopped onto his bed, his skin too hot and his legs too restless to cover himself with even a sheet.

Tomorrow would be different.

If he kept saying it, one day it would actually be true.

Ruby hammered on Dev’s front door. It was a really lovely door, with panels of stained glass, and part of her worried that she’d damage it. Only a very small part, though. A much bigger part of her wanted Dev to get his backside to Unit Base. Pronto.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Graeme beside her. ‘It won’t break.’

He stepped forward with an air of much experience and put her hammering to shame, rattling the door with his heavy-fisted knocks.

The delicate glass held. The noise was deafening. But there was still no sign of Dev.

‘Do you have a key?’ she asked, trying to peer through the multicoloured glass.

‘No,’ he said.

Ruby took a step back and put her hands on her hips as she surveyed the house.

Paul had called her to his office barely thirty minutes ago, and she’d shot out of her office and to Dev’s cottage in record time. Unfortunately, Dev’s call had been ten minutes prior to Paul’s
‘Where the hell is Devlin Cooper?’
rant, and with every minute that passed—and with a twenty-minute drive back to Unit Base...

Basically she needed Dev out of his house and into his car
now.

There were only two windows on the front of the sandstone cottage, edged in dark red brick. Both were closed, and a quick test proved they weren’t going to open easily. The white-painted veranda wrapped around the side of the house, and Ruby followed it, stopping at each window to check for an entry point. So far—no luck.