It was taking all of Tony’s strength just to hold the actor in place. A line of sparkling liquid ran down his chin, the tiny lights dancing over a hint of dark stubble. He spent a moment wondering what they were going to do in about thirty seconds when the last of the liquid disappeared, taking the light with it—Henry would have to find the panel—then a leather clad elbow caught him hard in the ribs.

“Perhaps we’d better change places.”

“Good idea,” Tony gasped. “Let the guy with super vampire strength take the . . . Henry?” He twisted around, following the line of Henry’s narrowed gaze, to see a circle of light sweep the set behind him. From behind the light came the deep bellow of a familiar voice.

“What’s going on in here?”

Chester Bane.

Wonder-fucking-ful. The rent-a-cop he might have been able to bullshit. Looks like it’s vampire whammy ti . . . Strong fingers grabbed his arm, hauled him to his feet, and threw him into the only available hiding place—the triangle of space between the couch and the far wall.

“But Lee . . .” He protested against Henry’s ear as the vampire landed beside him.

“We’ve done all we can for him.”

“What if the potion didn’t work?”

“The potion was all we had.”

“But CB . . .”

“Needs Lee Nicholas, doesn’t need you.”

Unpleasant, but true. Production assistant was an entry level position and a lot of people were banging on the door to get in. Lee, on the other hand, had a vocal and growing fan base. As much as Tony hated abandoning him, he’d hate to be fired a lot more.

Jamming his shoulder and head under the back edge of the couch, he reached out and lifted the front edge of the slipcover a centimeter off the floor in time to see the circle of light return to illuminate the figure lying in the center of the floor.

Although not entirely certain of what he had expected to see, finding Lee Nicholas flat on his back was not it. When the power had suddenly gone off throughout the building, CB had spent long moments finding his flashlight then—followed by the anguished screams of a writer whose creative genius had swept her right past the concept of saving her prose—he’d made his way to the soundstage.

Security had joined him by the women’s washroom and left him again when the sound of voices had drawn him away from his search for the panel.

“Mr. Nicholas.”

The actor moaned and drew one knee up.

He closed the distance between them and glared down at the sprawled body. Drunk, definitely. Hopefully, only drunk. Before he could speak, the beam from a 6,000 watt carbon arc lamp burned the words away.

And left a few new ones as the soundstage plunged into darkness again.