Stripped Read Online Free Page A

heartbeat that she struggled to ignore. “And?”
    With brisk efficiency, she traced the line of the scar with her thumb, testing how the silicone adapted to the ridges in his flesh. “Does it tug anywhere? Can you feel the edges lifting?”
    “It feels fine.”  
    She frowned. “I think it’s short. A quarter inch on each end, maybe.” She tapped the ends with her forefingers. “This should be closer to your hairline, and this tucked below your earlobe.”  
    “Will it work for today?”
    “Yes, but I’ll cast a new mold this afternoon. That scar wasn’t made for you.” Too late, she realized how her words might be interpreted.
    A beat of tense silence—not delicious this time—filled the trailer before he murmured, “I know it wasn’t. So I appreciate you makin’ a new one, just for me.”  
    “I…” But no words came as she wavered over the need to apologize. Instead, she nodded jerkily and began applying his makeup, jaw clamped shut. Her control was being tested this morning, as it hadn’t in a long time.
    Twenty minutes later, his dark eyes rimmed in darker liner, thick lashes coated in clear mascara, the contours of his face subtly—menacingly—shadowed, Fiona finished dabbing a barely tinted balm to his lower lip, trying not to notice how that lip gave beneath the pad of her finger. It wasn’t the sort of thing she was allowed to notice. “Done,” she announced, voice breaking slightly lower than usual after working in silence for so long. After removing the clip holding his hair off his forehead, she stepped aside, allowing him to view his final reflection in the mirror.  
    “Oh, cool.” He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and turned his head while his eyes tracked his reflection. “I look like a proper badass.”
    Fiona couldn’t help smiling. He did indeed look like a badass, all sly and handsome and oozing danger. And it was her work that had helped make him so. A sense of pride stole over her.  
    His gaze met hers in the mirror. “You’re quite good at this, y’know.”
    She meant to thank him, really she did, but the longer their eyes held, the warmer her face became, until she could do nothing more than murmur, “Let’s go to costuming, Mr. Murphy.”
    Without a word, he stood and followed her out the makeup trailer, fifty feet across their corner of the lot, and through the door of a semi-permanent building that acted as her father’s domain.
    The main wardrobe trailer was the size of a double-wide lined with racks of clothing ranging in fabrics from lush to threadbare. At the center was a pair of flat workstations, two sewing machines clamped down and needles, threads, scissors, and trim strewn across the tables’ surface. Rick O’Brien rummaged in a cubbyhole cupboard labeled in masking tape as belonging to “the Count”—Declan’s character. Each square space held an accessory of some kind: boots, top hats, pageboy caps, two different Carnivale masks.
    Marta, a dresser and Rick’s longtime assistant, scurried over to greet them. “Sweetie! I feel like I haven’t seen you in months!” She wrapped Fiona in a warm hug, her familiar, genuine smile creasing the cheeks framed by curly hair just starting to go gray.  
    Fiona returned the hug to the woman she’d known since childhood before stepping back. “Dad’s barbeque last weekend.”
    “Well, it feels like months when you’re working right next door and you never stop by.” Scolding done with, Marta turned her wide smile on Declan. “And you must be our new star.”
    He stretched out a hand. “Declan Murphy.”
    “Marta Greenburg. I’m your dresser.” She clasped his hand, beaming.
    Declan’s grin turned lopsided, suddenly the embodiment of boyish charm, dangerous scar, shadowy makeup, and all. “Had I known I’d have two beautiful women fussin’ over me for the next few months, I’d have made my way to Los Angeles much sooner.”
    Marta was delighted. “You wonderful flirt, you. Follow