Why Resist a Rebel - By Leah Ashton Page 0,7

by a large truck that’s sole purpose was to power Unit Base, the name of this collection of trucks and people that were the beating heart of any feature film.

Her job was everything to her, and a spotless professional reputation was non-negotiable. She didn’t get each job by circling ads in the paper, or subscribing to some online jobs database. In film, it was all about word of mouth.

And getting it on with an actor on set... Yeah. Not a good look.

On the plus side, Dev would have forgotten all about the slightly mussed-up, damp and dusty woman who’d gang-tackled him by now.

Now she just needed to forget about how he’d made her feel.

I think some time away would do you good. Help you...move on.

Well. Dev guessed this place was exactly what Veronica had been hoping for. A painstakingly restored century-old cottage, complete with tasteful rear extension, was where he’d be calling home for the immediate future. It offered uninterrupted views to the surrounding mountains and everything!

It was also a kilometre or so out of town, had no immediate neighbours, and, thanks to his agent, a live-in minder.

Security. Officially.

Right.

He needed a drink. He’d walked off a trans-Pacific flight less than eight hours ago. Even travelling first class couldn’t make a flight from LA to Sydney pleasant. Add a four-hour road trip with Graeme-the-security-guy and was it surprising he’d had a short fuse today?

Please play nice with Paul.

This in his latest email from his agent.

He shouldn’t have been surprised that the producer had already started updating Veronica on his behaviour. He’d even learnt exactly what she’d held over the prickly producer—knowledge of an on-set indiscretion with an aspiring actress ten years previously.

What a cliché.

And how like his agent to file that little titbit away for future use.

Good for her. Although he didn’t let himself consider how exactly he’d got to this point—to where landing roles depended on tactics and calling in favours.

Dev had dragged an overstuffed armchair onto the rear decking. On his lap was the script for The Land, not that he could read it now the sun had long set.

Beside him, on one of the chairs from the wooden outdoor setting he’d decided looked too uncomfortable, was his dinner. Cold, barely touched salmon with fancy-looking vegetables. God knew where Veronica had sourced his fridge and freezer full of food from—he’d long ago got used to her magic touch.

Although the lack of alcohol hadn’t gone unnoticed. Subtle, Veronica.

But she was wrong. Booze wasn’t his problem.

He’d have to send good old Graeme down to the local bottle shop tomorrow or something.

But for now, he needed a drink.

Leaving the script on the chair, he walked through the house, and then straight out of the front door. Graeme was staying in a separate, smaller worker’s cottage closer to the road, but Dev didn’t bother to stop and let him know where he was going.

He’d been micro-managed quite enough. He could damn well walk into town and get a drink without having to ask anyone’s approval.

So he did.

Walking felt good. For once he wasn’t on the lookout for the paparazzi, as, for now, no one knew he was here. His unexpected arrival in Australia would have been noticed, of course, and it wouldn’t take long before the photographers descended. But they hadn’t, not just yet.

He had no idea what time it was, just that it was dark. Really dark—there were certainly no streetlights, and the moon was little more than a sliver.

His boots were loud on the bitumen, loud enough to disturb a group of sheep that scattered abruptly behind their barbed-wire fence. Further from the road nestled the occasional house, their windows glowing squares of bright amid the darkness.

Soon he’d hit the main street, a short stretch of shops, a petrol station, a library. He hadn’t paid much attention when he’d arrived—a mix of jet lag and general lack of interest—but now he took the time to look, slowing his walk down to something approaching an amble.

Most of the town was silent—blinds were drawn, shops were certainly closed this late. But the one obvious exception was the pub, which, like much of the town, was old and stately—perched two storeys high on a corner, complete with a wide wooden balcony overlooking the street. Tonight the balcony was empty, but noise and music spilled from the open double doors. He quickened his pace, suddenly over all this peace and quiet.

It was packed. Completely—people were crammed at the bar, around the scattered tall tables and