Unless Lee had another commitment, he always stayed. Tony felt this gave his scenes a depth that Mason’s didn’t have and that it could be at least part of the reason for the amount of fan mail Lee had started to receive—although he didn’t kid himself that the larger reason involved the eyes, the smile, and the ass. It had taken him a couple of months to actually notice Lee’s acting ability and he was a trained professional.

Under normal circumstances, Tony was all in favor of Lee’s presence on the set. Today, he’d have been happier had Lee been out of the building. Hell, out of the country. If Arra was right and the next opening of the gate would release more shadows into the world, Lee needed to be as far from the gate as possible—not standing underneath it chatting to the boom operator while Peter went over the reactions he wanted with Laura.

If Arra was wrong . . . well, Tony would still have been happier with Lee anywhere but unavoidably in sight. He couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened between them—between him and Lee’s body at any rate—and it was distracting.

“TONY!”

He jerked his head toward the microphone so quickly he nearly gave himself whiplash. “Yeah, Adam?”

“Find Everett and get him out here. Frank’s comb over needs to be touched up before his shots.”

And faintly from the background. “It’s not a comb over!”

Everett was in makeup with Mason Reed in the chair. Startled, Tony checked his sides. “Uh, Mr. Reed, you’re not . . .”

“Promo shots,” the actor snapped. “For The Georgia Straight. Yet another article about my personal life—rich and single in Canada’s hippest city.” His sigh was deep enough to waft a cotton ball off the counter. “They should be concentrating on my art; I don’t know why they’re so fascinated by what I do in my minimal amount of spare time.”

They’re not fascinated, they’re inundated—you won’t shut up about it. Flashing Mason the “sorry I’m interrupting but I’m carrying a message from someone much more important than me” smile he’d perfected after three days on the job, Tony turned to the other man, currently wiping lotion off his fingers. “Everett, you’re needed on set.”

“He’s not finished with me.”

“It’s not a problem, Mason. We need a moment for that bronz . . . moisturizer,” Everett corrected quickly as Mason glared at him, “to set.”

“Georgia Straight interview my ass,” the makeup artist muttered a moment later as they made their way back to the soundstage. “They’ve never shot him in anything but black and white. I’m betting he has a hot date with one of his parasailing, snowboarding bimbos. Hard bodies young enough to be your daughter are seldom impressed by vampire pallor. Don’t quote me on that, though.”