Triple Threat
Regina Kyle
Subject: Airborne Captain Eli Murdoch.Current status: Ready and raring to go!Mission: Serve his country.Obstacle: Sexy Tara Swenson. Impossible to resist.Weddings are a minefield for Eli Murdoch. Each time he goes to one, he falls into bed with the same woman–Tara Swenson! But a relationship between a footloose soldier and a homebody can never work. Can it?Tara can't seem to keep her panties on and her legs together around her former high school crush. But she wants more than wham bam, thank you ma'am. Although Captain Hard Body is very good at that!When he returns for a third wedding, Tara's faced with a man trained to outmaneuver her! So she makes the first offensive move. Directly into Eli's very willing arms…
Sabotage…and Seduction!
The Playwright
It’s emerging playwright Holly Nelson’s big break. Broadway. Having survived her traumatic marriage and divorce, Holly is now aiming for success, not love. And any naughty dreams about Nick Damone—the gorgeously dishy star who was her crush back in high school—must remain a fantasy.
The Star
For Nick, Broadway is a chance to go from big-screen eye candy to serious actor, and to explore the lust blazing between him and Holly. But life-threatening accidents will force a chain of events that could bring down the curtain on the whole production…or give Nick and Holly a chance to finish the sexy something that started fifteen years ago!
“Is it the script?” Holly blurted. “I knew it. You don’t like the script.”
“That’s not it at all.” Nick reached for her hand, remembering that night on the dock when their roles were reversed and he was the one unsure of his future, needing her encouragement. “I do know a good script when I read one. And yours is good. Better than good.”
“If the script’s not the problem, then what is?”
Damn, he could get lost in those deep green eyes. “You’ve heard the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ right?”
“Of course, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Good.” And in a move of either sheer genius or monumental stupidity, he leaned in and kissed her long and hard.
Dear Reader (#ulink_52f98dd0-5cc5-5da2-97db-fef83e264c08),
Hi. My name is Regina. And I’m a theater geek.
On stage. Backstage. In the audience. Since I was ten years old I’ve been captivated by all aspects of theater. So when I decided to write a romance novel (my first!), what better place to set it than the wild, wacky, wonderful—and oh-so-sexy—world of Broadway.
At a Broadway audition, Hollywood star Nick Damone doesn’t expect to find Holly Nelson, the one person who saw past his dumb jock routine in high school and encouraged him to pursue his acting dream. Holly’s just as surprised. She’s trying to prove herself as a playwright and get back on her feet after her messy divorce. And Nick’s one tall, dark and dangerous distraction.
There’s nothing like a good reunion romance, and this couple had the keys of my laptop burning up from their first encounter. But they’re both damaged, touched by an issue I see all too often in my work as a senior assistant state’s attorney—domestic violence. Getting them past their wounds to their own happy ending was a worthwhile challenge.
I love hearing from readers. You can find me on Facebook, www.facebook.com/reginakyleauthor (http://www.facebook.com/reginakyleauthor), and on Twitter, @Regina_Kyle1 (https://twitter.com/Regina_Kyle1). And keep an eye out for Holly’s brother, Gabe, and her best friend, Devin. Their story is coming soon!
Until next time,
Regina
Triple Threat
Regina Kyle
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ulink_21be2718-1c85-56f3-9ddc-3be0f80350ad)
REGINA KYLE knew she was destined to be an author when she won a writing contest at age eight with a touching tale about a squirrel and a nut pie. By day, she writes dry legal briefs, representing the state in criminal appeals. At night, she writes steamy romance with heart and humor. A lover of all things theatrical, Regina lives on the Connecticut shoreline with her husband, teenage daughter and two melodramatic cats. When she’s not writing, she’s most likely singing, reading, cooking or watching bad reality television. You can find her on Facebook, www.facebook.com/reginakyleauthor (http://www.facebook.com/reginakyleauthor), and follow @Regina_Kyle1 (https://twitter.com/Regina_Kyle1) on Twitter.
For Dad, who always made sure my feet were planted firmly on the ground.
And Mom, who gave me wings to fly.
Contents
Cover (#u4e5decc7-07e6-5571-8d97-9fc5c84b132f)
Back Cover Text (#u25d51eb2-b9c2-58f0-99ea-08e8fe6c33a3)
Introduction (#u45d317ae-731f-5f43-afd8-a2114502ad36)
Dear Reader (#ucb6f8eee-dd4b-527a-a8c7-6096e0b968e6)
Title Page (#uc8e55929-0172-5ec1-8386-ae987b59ff3f)
About the Author (#u1ed1cd33-80d3-57ab-95db-37d13c282c35)
Dedication (#u113d18e5-9eec-53d8-b71c-53002a57b7b9)
Chapter One (#ub551c01a-706a-5b9c-bae6-a728aa7d3152)
Chapter Two (#uebac14fc-28db-5b92-86fa-c9c20786ab57)
Chapter Three (#ud80550bf-6e30-5bd0-901e-9e956e18c0c4)
Chapter Four (#u53d20924-c81d-50d5-bc80-9e8586e1fa63)
Chapter Five (#u718862fd-991a-5412-a30c-f007d465f8df)
Chapter Six (#ueb7a9841-a381-5e5c-8843-5bd95162a9ce)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
1 (#ulink_8e1ccd11-3985-5090-8600-fd3848d01997)
“ARE YOU OUT of your goddamn mind?” Nick Damone threw the script down on his agent’s desk. To his credit, Garrett Chandler didn’t flinch, most likely because he’d dealt with more than his fair share of temperamental clients. Not that Nick was temperamental. He had every right to be pissed. “Even if I wanted to play an adulterous, wife-beating scumbag—which I don’t—there’s absolutely no way the studio’s going to go for it.”
“Leave Eclipse to me. You’ve made them a midsize mint playing Trent Savage.” Garrett sank into his butter-leather chair. “Besides, you said you wanted to get out of L.A. for a few months. So do it. Get back to your theater roots. Break free from your on-screen persona and try something edgy.”
“Yeah.” Nick was tired of the backstabbers and bootlickers who were the bedrock of Hollywood society. Spent from the acrobatics of embracing fame but avoiding scandal. And at thirty-three, his days as action hero Trent Savage were numbered, and with it his livelihood unless he expanded. Denzel starred in action, drama, comedy. Won an Oscar in his thirties, another in his forties, and kept getting nominated every year or two. Robert Downey Jr. was buried in awards and prime projects, with first refusal on scripts that would make Nick weep on cue. If he wanted his career to have legs like that, he needed to be more than Trent Savage.
But there was edgy and there was diving off cliffs. Onto jagged rocks, at low tide, in front of a live audience. Eight times a week.
“Trust me, Nick. I didn’t get you this far by pulling advice out of my ass. This role is gold. I’m talking Tony-worthy.” Garrett motioned for Nick to sit in one of the webbed chairs opposite the wide mahogany desk and pushed the script toward him. “Dig into this again. I think you’ll see it’s everything you’re looking for.”
Nick sat, stretching his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. The flight from Hong Kong, where his latest picture just wrapped, had been long and damn uncomfortable. Even first class was no place for a guy of six foot four. All he wanted now was a thick steak, a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. All of which he’d get after he won this argument with his worthless agent, who, unfortunately, also happened to be the closest he had to a best friend. He tended to keep people at arm’s length, where they couldn’t mess with his head. Or his heart.
“What do we know about this playwright?” He traced the words on the script cover, his brain taking a moment to decipher the jumbled letters. The Lesser Vessel by H. N. Ryan.
“Not much,” Garrett admitted. “She’s new. Her bio’s pretty sketchy—went to Wesleyan, a few plays off-off-Broadway that closed early. But Ted and Judith say her talent is once a generation. They optioned this play before it was even finished. Coming from two of the hottest producers on Broadway, that’s a pretty big endorsement.”
“She?” Nick leaned forward in his chair. Spousal abuse was a hot-button topic after a spate of recent celebrity arrests, but the writing hadn’t felt like an “issue” play, which—shoot him for saying so—made him assume it was written by a man.
He wouldn’t admit it to Garrett, but he’d read the whole gut-wrenching story on the plane—instead of sleeping. The author had gotten into his head, and to find out the guy who spoke to him was a woman was...disconcerting.
What Garrett didn’t know—what almost no one knew—was that domestic violence had been a part of Nick’s daily existence for years. It still reared its ugly head every time his mom visited him, or when he talked to her on the phone. Affected him most on those rare occasions when he contemplated going home to confront his father.
He’d kept his distance, though, because he didn’t trust either of them to control their rage. His mother suffered enough already. She didn’t need the two of them beating each other to a pulp.
“A woman,” he said again.
“Down, boy. She’s not your type.”
Nick didn’t bother correcting Garrett’s perception of him as a skirt-chasing man whore. He’d given up fighting that image. In reality, he was more of a serial monogamist, but he’d learned the hard way that it wasn’t worth bucking the Hollywood machine. The press, the studio—hell, even Garrett—were happy to exploit his image as a ladies’ man, truth be damned. Nothing he could do or say was going to change that. “How do you know she’s not my type?”
“According to Ted, she’s short, smart and sweet. That’s three strikes against her in your book.”
“Hey,” Nick protested with a wry smile. “The women I date are sweet.” Tall, leggy and vapid, sure. But sweet. He wasn’t looking for a lifetime commitment. If watching his parents hadn’t been enough to sour him on marriage, then dealing with the liars and cheaters in Hollywood for the past ten years had put the nail in that coffin.
Love would have to wait a very long time to catch Nick.
“I’m not kidding.” Unlike Nick, Garrett wasn’t smiling. “This one’s off-limits. She’s a serious author, not one of your blonde bimbos.”
“Whatever.” Garrett’s threat was meaningless for one simple reason: Nick wasn’t doing this play. Final answer. Game over.
Exhaustion invading like crystalline Ambien, he closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair. He needed to come up with a new plan of attack or he’d find himself in a rehearsal room in Chelsea. “So the writer’s legit and the play’s the real deal. But why the bastard ex-husband? What about the cop?”
Garrett shook his head. “Pussy part. Besides, it’s already been offered and accepted.”
Nick snapped to attention. “Who?”
Garrett shuffled through some papers, doing a shit job of stalling. They both spoke fluent body language, and Nick could tell he wasn’t going to like Garrett’s answer. “Malcolm Justice.”
“You can’t be serious.” It was Nick’s turn to push the script back across the desk. “I wouldn’t play opposite that goddamn lightweight to save my career. Even if he was the asshole ex-husband and I got to beat on his pretty-boy face every night.”
“Get over it, Nick. You’re Trent Savage. He’s not, even if he claims he’d have been the better choice. His fans’ bitching and moaning on those stupid message boards is just sour grapes.”
“What about the fact that people will see me as a wife beater? Stop me in Starbucks to berate me...” The most important of those people being his mom. If she managed to sneak away from his father long enough to catch the show, she’d probably watch the whole thing from between her fingers, experiencing every blow. Stage an intervention to curb his violent tendencies. Definitely cry. A lot.
“That’s the price of being an artist.” Garrett poured another drink, handed it to Nick and stared out at his fortieth-floor glass-plated view.
“Some artist.” Nick took a sip. He’d wondered when Garrett would get around to sharing the Maker’s Mark. “I’ve spent the past six years playing a globe-trotting, womanizing fortune hunter. Not exactly Shakespeare.”
Hell, he wasn’t even sure if what he did could be considered acting anymore. And now his own agent wanted to serve him up as fodder for critics like that jerk at the Times, the one who made no secret of his disgust for what he called Broadway’s “star worship.”
As much as Nick hated to admit it, this whole thing scared him. It had been years since he’d been onstage. He figured he’d pick up where he left off before heading west, at some obscure way-off-Broadway theater where he could flop without risking career suicide.
Nick took another sip of bourbon. It scorched a warm trail down his throat, but not even that familiar, normally reassuring sensation could help him shake the feeling that he was in way over his head. Broadway? Who the fuck was he kidding?
“What’s that motto you’re always repeating?” Garrett’s tone was mocking. “‘Be beautiful, be brilliant’?”
“Be bold. Be brave.” The words jolted him back almost fifteen years to a lakeside dock and the girl who’d first said them and changed his life.
Holly Nelson. He wondered if she remembered that night at the cast party as vividly as he did. The breeze ruffling her wavy brown hair. Her hand, warm and insistent on his arm, urging him to dream big. Her wide, bottle-green eyes seeing him completely, as weird as that sounded. Not just who he was but who he could become.
No, she probably didn’t remember any of that. Probably didn’t remember their kiss, either, although it was imprinted in his brain. He’d known she was inexperienced, and he’d meant it to be innocent, a thank-you for telling him what he needed to hear. But the second his lips met hers, all thoughts of innocence had disintegrated. She’d melted in his arms like butter, soft and pliant. He’d closed his eyes against the rush of pleasure as her mouth opened to him and her hands fluttered up to stroke his chest through his T-shirt. He’d been so far gone he hadn’t seen Jessie Pagano sauntering across the lawn to interrupt them until it was too late. Lost camera, his ass.
While he’d thought about Holly over the years more than he cared to admit, Nick hadn’t kept track of her. He owed her for kick-starting his acting career, but it would be presumptuous to track her down. He imagined her back home in suburban Stockton, married to a high school gym teacher, with kids she kissed and praised all day. What would she think of this whole Broadway thing?
“You okay, buddy?”
Garrett’s voice brought Nick back to the present. He downed the rest of his bourbon and wiped his mouth, nodding. “Fine.”
“So you’ll meet with the production team?”
Shit. “Where and when?”
“New York.” Garrett paused to finish off his drink, and once again Nick knew what followed was going to be bad news. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
“No way. I just got off a goddamn plane. Can’t it wait a few days?”
“No can do. Casting was supposed to be finished last week but they held off, waiting for you to return stateside. Seems someone over there’s got a real hard-on for you in this part.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You said it, brother. That’s why I booked both of us on the red-eye.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“Sure this part will catapult you to the next level, if that’s what you mean. Rumor has it Spielberg’s shopping a Joe DiMaggio biopic. You’d be a great fit for the title role, and this play is just the thing to put you on his radar.”
Damn. Nick would give his left nut to work with Spielberg. And Joltin’ Joe was a national hero.
He slumped over and ran a hand through his hair. It was a foregone conclusion Garrett would win this battle, but he felt compelled to take one last stand. “I’m starving, exhausted and in serious need of a shower.”
“No problem.” Garrett crossed the room and grabbed his jacket off a coatrack. “We’ve got just enough time to get to your place for you to clean up and pack. You can sleep and eat on the plane.”
“What about you?”
Garrett picked up an overnight bag from behind the coatrack. “All set.”
“Cocky son of a bitch.” Nick grinned in spite of himself.
“That’s why I make the big bucks.” Garrett swung open his office door and strode out.
Nick grabbed the script and followed him. There was no way he’d be sleeping on the plane. If he was auditioning for the powers that be, he intended to be prepared. He needed to reread the play at least twice, break down specific scenes, write a character bio... Not easy tasks given his dyslexia.
“This better be worth it.” He slipped on a pair of Oakley sunglasses. “Or I’ll be in the market for a new agent. And a new best friend.”
2 (#ulink_83b9a009-71df-56bc-a71c-be32d10fa929)
HOLLY RYAN TURNED her head, trying to catch a glimpse of her backside in the black linen dress pants, and scowled. “They’re too tight. I don’t know what was wrong with what I had on.”
“These old things?” Her sister Noelle nudged the pale pink button-down and khakis lying in a heap on the floor with her foot. “Please. They made you look like a hausfrau. Now you’ve got a waist. And an ass. And how about those boobs? I feel like I’ve just unearthed Atlantis.”
“Which brings us to our next problem.” Holly toyed with the plunging neckline of the silk blouse, another loaner from her baby sister, who, at twenty-six, was a full-blown fashionista. “Isn’t this a little...”
“Flattering? Attractive? Eye-catching?”
“I was thinking more like revealing. Inappropriate. Slutty.”
Noelle put a hand to her heart and staggered as if she’d been shot. “You wound me, sis. That’s my lucky Marc Jacobs chemise. I wore it to my first opening night party. Giselle.”
Holly trudged to her bed and collapsed. All this primping was exhausting. First, Noelle had insisted on styling Holly’s notoriously stick-straight hair. Then she’d spent an hour applying just the right amount of makeup. And now she was forcing Holly to play dress-up. It was like senior prom all over again, when twelve-year-old Noelle had schooled Holly on all the “girlie girl” things that were still so foreign to her.
“It’s not that I’m not grateful for all your effort, Noe.” Holly flopped onto her back, bouncing a bit on the too-firm mattress. “I just don’t understand why it’s necessary.”
“First of all,” Noelle began, sitting on the bed next to her and holding up one finger in a gesture that said a list of reasons was forthcoming, “you deserve a little pampering after the past couple of years you’ve had. Consider it your reward for dumping that bottom-feeder, Clark.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Holly pushed up onto her elbows. Her sister didn’t know the half of it. No one did except the police and a handful of medical professionals.
“And second—” Noelle held up another finger “—you’re a big-time playwright now. You’ve got to look the part.”
Holly rolled her eyes. “I’m nowhere near big-time.”
Noelle gave her a playful smack upside the head. “Wake up and smell the success, girl! Your play’s headed for Broadway. With at least one, maybe even two major movie stars. I’d call that big-time.”
She had a point. But Holly had a hard time thinking of herself as anything other than the perennial screw-up in a family of overachievers. Her three younger siblings had each climbed their career mountains and planted their flags on top, wisely ignoring the example of their hopeless older sister. Holly had had more jobs than hairstyles, from substitute teaching to bartending to dog walking. It had become something of a family joke, guessing what she’d “explore” next. “Holly’s follies,” they called them.
The “follies” stopped a couple of years into her five-year marriage, when Clark had decided he wanted her at home, happy to greet him at the door each evening with a gin and tonic in her hand and dinner on the table. Always game, Holly had tried the new role.
Massive mistake.
Domestic goddesshood evaded her, at least in Clark’s estimation. Dinner was always overdone or underdone, the toilets never sufficiently shiny, his shirts never starched enough. Her saving grace—what made the debacle bearable—was an article in a women’s magazine about the benefits of journaling.
And thus H. N. Ryan, author, was born.
“I’ll believe it when I see the marquee go up.” A healthy chunk of her still doubted that would ever happen. There were too many ways things could crash and burn in high def. “Until then...”
“Honestly, Holls.” Noelle pushed a strand of long blond hair, so different from Holly’s, behind one ear. “You worry too much. You said the producers signed Malcolm Justice to play the cop, right?”
Holly nodded and sat up fully.
“And this new guy? The one who’s reading for you today?” Noelle turned away from Holly to the selection of shoes she had lined up at the foot of the bed. Holly groaned inwardly. Not one of them had a heel less than four inches.
“No clue. All Ethan would say is that he’s a grade-A film star and major heartthrob.”
Which was strange, Holly thought. They never kept secrets. Ethan Phelps had been her best friend since their freshman year at Wesleyan when she’d helped him conquer Chaucer and Dickens. He’d rewarded her with the irritating nickname “Hollypop,” a name he unfortunately still insisted on using.
When her agent told her that The Lesser Vessel had been optioned for Broadway, her second thought—after Are you drunk?—was whether they’d consider Ethan to direct. Fortunately, the producers loved his regional-theater work.
“What if it’s George Clooney?” Noelle froze, her ballerina’s feet in a pensive third position. “Or Tom Cruise?”
Holly shook her head. “Too old. And too...Tom Cruise.”
“Ooh, how about Nick Damone?” Holly almost choked on her tongue, but Noelle, who had moved on to a collection of jewelry spread across the dresser, didn’t seem to notice. “You could finally do something about that crush you had on him in high school.”
“What do you mean?”
“Please, Holls. Give me some credit.”
“But you were ten.” And all this time she thought Ethan was the only one who knew. She’d confessed her long-ago crush on the now-famous movie star one night shortly after her divorce was final, an aftereffect of too many rum and Cokes.
But she’d never told anyone—not even Ethan—that she was the one who’d convinced Nick to ditch his football scholarship and go to New York, or that he’d kissed her that night at the cast party. Her first kiss, and no other boy had come close to making her heart race and her insides quiver the way Nick had. Of course, that magic moment had ended all too soon when Jessie Pagano came looking for her camera. Right. With one crook of her perfectly manicured finger she’d lured Nick away like a pied piper in do-me heels.
Ethan and Noelle would have never let her live that down. So Holly resorted to the safest tactic she knew: deny, deny, deny. “What did you know about crushes? I do not, did not, have a thing for Nick Damone.”
“Then why are you blushing like a virgin at a strip club?”
“I am not blushing!” Holly covered her face with her hands. Crap. Her sister was right. Her cheeks felt as hot as the pottery kiln she’d bought during what her family referred to as her “terra-cotta phase.”
“It’s no big deal. I’ve got a thing for Ryan Gosling. Seven minutes alone with that man in a closet and I’d definitely be in heaven.”
“Thing or no thing, it doesn’t matter. According to Variety, Nick’s still in Hong Kong shooting the new Trent Savage flick.”
“Well, whoever your mystery movie star is, you need these to close the deal.” Noelle picked up a pair of silver peep-toe sling backs and dangled them from her fingertips. “Christian Louboutin.”
As if that meant anything to Holly. “No way.”
Noelle smiled with far more wicked intent than any woman wanted to see in her baby sister. “You have to. Guys think they’re sexy.”
“I’m shooting for professional, not sexy.” Holly went to her closet and pulled out a pair of simple, low black pumps, the only pair of heels she owned. Practically new, since she barely wore them. She shoved them on. “These are more my speed.”
“Oh, well. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Noelle tossed the Louboutins aside, bent down and rummaged around in her Gucci carry-on, pulling out a thick black belt. “Just a couple of final touches.”
She fastened the belt around Holly’s waist, centering the large oval buckle, then handed her a pair of garnet studs and a matching necklace from the bureau. “Now you’re ready to kick ass and take names. And if it’s—please, God—Ryan Gosling, call me and don’t let him out the door before I get there.”
Half an hour later, Holly paced outside the Film Center Building on Ninth Avenue, hitting Redial on her cell phone again. And again. And again. “Come on, Ethan! Pick up, dammit! Where are you?”
“Right behind you, Hollypop.”
She jumped and spun around, teetering until Ethan grabbed her by the arms and steadied her. “Ethan, you scared me! And you’re late. And you know I hate that nickname.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead and released her. “Aw, don’t be mad, Holls. That frown doesn’t go with the fabulous getup you’re rocking.”
“You know I can never stay mad at you.” She returned his kiss with a peck on the cheek.
A trace of something like regret flashed across Ethan’s face. “Tell me that again in a few minutes,” he muttered, then changed the subject. “Nice duds. Did you take my advice and call Noelle?”
She nodded and glanced down at the hint of cleavage just visible in the folds of her sister’s blouse. “You think it’s okay? Not too much?”
“Better than okay. And definitely not too much.” He took her elbow and steered her to the door. “Now, let’s get this party started.”
They whipped past the doorman, through the lobby and into the elevator. “What’s with all the mystery, Ethan? You planning on telling me who’s upstairs waiting for us?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He shuffled his feet and punched the button for the fourteenth floor twice more.
“Why so nervous? We’ve been auditioning big-name stars for weeks. Even hired one of them.”
“Not like this.” The elevator dinged and Ethan motioned for her to precede him out. “Let’s just say if we sign this guy it’ll be the biggest news to hit the Great White Way since Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig in A Steady Rain.”
Holly paused at the familiar door to the offices of Broadway producers Ted and Judith Aaronson. “I’d faint if it was one of them.”
“It’s not. But you just might faint anyway.”
“Promise you’ll catch me if I do.” She reached for the doorknob, but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist, his soft gray eyes serious.
“Sure, if you promise me something in return.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal, immoral or fattening.”
“Whatever happens in there, promise you won’t hate me.”
“Hate you? Why would I hate you?” She shook his hand off, her stomach knotting up like a ball of yarn. “You’re freaking me out, Ethan. Who’s waiting for us in there? The pope? Jimmy Hoffa? My ex-mother-in-law?”
Before he could answer, the door fell open with a whoosh.
“Here they are!” Ted opened the door wider, ushering them inside. “Our esteemed writer and director.” He brought them into a conference room where Judith and several others were seated in tapestry chairs around an enormous walnut table. One man stood apart, his back to the door, apparently engrossed in one of the framed photos of the New York skyline that dotted the walls. Black hair curled over the collar of his cream-colored dress shirt, which hugged his broad shoulders and displayed strong forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves.
No. It couldn’t be him. He was supposed to be on a movie set overseas...
“Holly Ryan, Ethan Phelps,” Ted boomed, earning him a stern look from his wife. He either ignored or missed it and continued, not lowering his voice one decibel. “Say hello to our new star, straight from the silver screen.”
The man turned and Holly knew from his slack-jawed expression that he was as shocked as she was.
Nick.
He moved toward her like a tidal wave of gorgeous in an ocean of ohmigod. “It’s been a long time, Holly.” Tall, dark and to-die-for, he held out his hand. His voice, deep and rough, made her breath catch and her nipples tighten. She crossed her arms in front of her chest to hide her unfortunate and completely involuntary reaction to the man who had starred in her erotic dreams since—well, since she’d been old enough to have erotic dreams.
“Nick. I thought you were in Hong Kong.” She stood, feet planted, afraid if she got any nearer to him she’d dissolve into a pool of fiery, lust-ridden goo.
“Been keeping up with me?” He dropped his hand when she didn’t move to take it, slipping it casually into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’m flattered.”
“It’s hard not to. You’re everywhere.”
“Ethan didn’t tell you?” Ted stepped in, smile lines further crinkling his already wrinkled face, and clapped the director on the shoulder. Ethan gave him a warning glare, but the older man, either truly oblivious or deliberately ignorant, ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and continued, “He insisted we see Nick for this role, that he’d be perfect as our modern-day Stanley Kowalski. Even convinced us to put off casting until he finished shooting.”
“Perfect,” Holly echoed, her blood closely approaching the boiling point.
A bead of sweat trickled down Ethan’s forehead and his Adam’s apple did a nervous dance in his throat. “Surprise.”
3 (#ulink_fddf7622-0583-55dc-9789-10950a70d816)
NICK OWED ETHAN PHELPS one hell of an expensive bottle of Scotch. He didn’t know why, but thanks to Phelps he was face-to-face with Holly Nelson. His teenage fantasy, all grown up.
Unfortunately, his teenage fantasy didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. Instead, she dragged the director into a corner where they conversed in hushed tones. Nick caught comments like “what the hell were you thinking” and “not in this lifetime.”
Looked as if he wasn’t the only one knocked for a loop by their little reunion. Too bad he was the only one happy about it.
Nick took advantage of Holly’s distraction to look at her. Really look at her. She was dressed a bit more provocatively than she used to. Wearing more makeup, too. And her hair was different, all spiky and brushed to one side.
The soft, sweet curve of her breasts peeked from the low-cut neckline of her blouse, but under the designer clothes and makeup was the girl he remembered. She’d filled out, of course, and in all the right places. But it was still Holly, with those piercing green eyes.
She stabbed a finger at Ethan’s chest to make some particularly passionate point. The movement thrust those delectable breasts out farther.
Oh, yeah. She’d grown up, all right. But what was she doing here? She seemed awfully familiar with the director. His assistant, maybe?
He eased himself into a chair and reached for the pitcher of ice water at the center of the table. As he did, the cover of his script, and the name of the author inscribed across it, caught his eye.
H. N. Ryan.
And then it hit him. Ted had introduced her as Holly Ryan. Holly was the playwright. Holly Nelson Ryan.
“Why don’t we all sit down and get things rolling.” Judith’s sharp Brooklyn accent jolted Nick back to the conference room. “Colleen,” she continued, turning to a pretty blonde lurking by the door, “why don’t you get Holly a copy of the script. She can—”
“Read the role of the wife,” Ted finished for Judith. She frowned and pulled out a chair at the end of the table, as far from her husband as possible. “Wonderful.”
“Of course.” The blonde disappeared momentarily, then returned with script in hand. “Here you are, Mrs. Ryan.”
Shit.
She was married. Sweet little Holly Nelson, the object of some of his hottest adolescent fantasies, was Mrs. Holly Ryan. Wife. Playwright. Maybe even mother.
Tony award and Spielberg film be damned, there was no way in hell he could work side by side with Holly for months on end, all the while silently lusting after her. Or maybe not so silently, he thought. He watched her smile as she took the script from Colleen, the tip of her tongue darting out to swipe her lips. He bit back a groan at the unconsciously erotic gesture.
This play already had two strikes against it as far as Nick was concerned. He hadn’t been onstage in years, and he had dyslexia. He’d need to be completely focused to pull it off. No distractions. And Holly had distraction written all over her—untouchable, unattainable distraction.
He eyed Garrett sitting next to him. There was no way around it. His agent would have to learn to live with the disappointment.
“Nick.” Ethan took a seat across the table. “I understand you and Holly go way back.” Ethan winced and frowned at Holly in the chair to his left. She returned his grimace with a smirk, and Nick was pretty sure she’d just kicked the director under the table. What exactly was their relationship, anyway?
“Yes. We grew up together in Stockton, Connecticut.” The big dumb jock and the cute little honors student. “Just outside New Haven.”
“Well,” Ted said. “That makes this even better.” He paused and looked around the table for dramatic effect. “Let’s start with act one, scene two, the argument at the dinner table.”
Holly’s face reddened and she ducked her head, frantically turning the pages of her script. “Of course.”
Fuck. Getting out of this was going to be harder than he thought.
“Actually, Ted, I—”
“Nick,” Garrett interrupted, glaring at him, “would be happy to—”
“What I’m trying to say,” Nick said, glaring right back, “is that I’m sorry I wasted your time, but I don’t think this project’s right for me.” He stood, leaving his script on the table, and risked one last glance at Holly. Damn, she looked fine. Good enough to eat, starting with those lush lips and working his way down, inch by glorious inch. “It was nice seeing you, Holly. Good luck with...everything.”
He strode to the door, barely registering Garrett’s song and dance of apologies in the wake of his startling announcement. The guy was a hustler, he’d give him that. But no amount of hustling was going to change Nick’s mind. He’d just have to find another way to redefine his career and impress Spielberg. One that didn’t involve the very diverting—and very married—Holly Nelson Ryan.
* * *
“NO, NO, A THOUSAND times no!” Holly paced the length of the conference room, now empty except for her and Ethan.
He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the table, hands steepled under his chin. “You heard Ted and Judith. No Nick, no show. They’ve got a group of private investors lined up, but before they cough up any dough they want to see Nick signed on the dotted line.”
“Why Nick?” Holly whined, still pacing. “Can’t we just get another star?”
Ethan lifted a shoulder. “Guess my sales pitch was a little too convincing.”
“Then why me?” She couldn’t do what they were asking. It was too risky. “Why can’t you persuade him? You brought him here. Or Ted? Or Judith?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Because Nick wasn’t looking at me or Ted or Judith like he wanted to throw us onto the conference table and go all caveman.”
That stopped Holly in her tracks. “You are majorly delusional. He barely glanced my way.”
She, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him from the moment she’d walked in the door. His presence had seemed to take up the whole room. She’d seen one or two of his movies. Okay, she’d seen them all multiple times, and owned the DVDs. But that hadn’t even remotely prepared her for Nick Damone, live, in person and sexy as sin.
He had those mocha eyes, as dark and smoky as she remembered but even more intense, more penetrating. When she was able to break free from their strange, hypnotic spell, her addled brain registered a scraggly beard and moustache, probably grown for his last picture. Sprinkled with silver, they highlighted his strong jaw, making him appear, if possible, even more masculine. One lock of hair had flopped temptingly across his brow, and she’d longed to reach up—way up, given the difference in their heights—and brush it back.
And that was just his face. As for his body...
Yowza.
He’d always been tall, but the lean, athletic boy she remembered had filled out and become a hard, muscular, mouthwateringly beautiful man. His dress shirt clung to his biceps and broad chest, falling loosely over what she knew must be washboard abs. Well-worn jeans rode low on his hips and molded to his powerful thighs and taut, trim butt. She’d tried—but failed—not to notice how they cupped certain other areas as well.
Ethan pushed his chair back from the table and walked over to her. “You’re wrong, Holls. The sexual tension in the room was off the charts from the second you laid eyes on each other. And it definitely wasn’t a one-way street.”
“So what are you saying? You want me to seduce him into taking the part?”
“No. Of course not.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “We want you to talk to him. Just talk. It’s obvious you two have some sort of connection. He’ll listen to you.”
She shook his hand off. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this. After the way you sandbagged me! I should be mad at you, you know. Strike that. I am mad at you.”
“You know if I had told you it was Nick, you would have flipped out.”
“I would not have.”
“Then why are you flipping out now? So you had a crush on him as a kid. Big deal. It’s ancient history.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me...”
“No.” She resisted the urge to check her nose to see if it was growing after that whopper. “I just don’t know what I can say that will convince him to take this part.”
“Tell him what you told me when I came on as director. That you wrote The Lesser Vessel because you want to help other women in the same situation find the courage to get the hell out.”
Courage. Hah. What did she know about courage?
“Please, Holls,” Ethan begged, blessedly interrupting the dark turn of her thoughts. “It’s our best chance of getting this show off the ground.”
“You want me to admit he’d be playing my ex-husband? Blurt out my whole sordid life story?”
“Okay, skip that part. But let him know how important the message of this show is. Not just to you but to the whole production team. We believe in you and your play, Holly. He will, too, if you give him the chance.”
“Well, when you put it that way...” She took a deep breath, then blew it out loudly through pursed lips. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“And if the subject of your past relationship comes up...”
“I told you. There’s nothing to discuss. There is—was—no relationship.” Holly made her way to the door. “I’m beginning to regret this already. Remind me again why you can’t join me on this little errand?”
“It’s Jean-Michel’s birthday. He’ll kill me if I’m late for the celebratory dinner I supposedly planned for him that was really all his doing. Besides,” he teased, his eyes sparkling and one corner of his mouth turned up mischievously, “you know what they say.”
“What?”
“Three’s a crowd.”
She rolled her eyes and turned to leave.
“Holly, wait. I know I might sound flip, but this is serious.” His words—and his tone—made her pause with one hand on the doorknob. “Clark’s a first-class jack hole who deserves to be put in front of a firing squad. But he’s your past. It’s time to start thinking about your future.”
He crossed to her and squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve been alone long enough. And you might never get a chance like this again. Don’t you owe it to yourself to figure out what this crazy chemistry between you and People’s Sexiest Man Alive is about?”
She turned to him, tears threatening to spill over. “Damn you, Ethan. How am I supposed to stay mad at you when you say stuff like that?”
“You’re not.” He smiled, flashing a solitary dimple on his left cheek. “Just don’t let it get around. I’ve got a reputation as a tough guy to uphold.”
“If you say so.” With a final squeeze, she stepped out of his embrace and wiped her eyes.
“He’s staying at the Marquis.” He handed her a business card with the hotel’s address scrawled on the back. “Room 1008.”
4 (#ulink_4ea045ad-c84e-5ebb-9755-ab57d3bb03e9)
HOLLY CHECKED THE card in her hand once more before knocking on the door: 1008. Good. She was in the right place.
Or the wrong place.
She exhaled loudly, shaking off her doubts, and knocked. She was there to talk. Just talk. She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake, not a hormonal teenager. She wasn’t going to be distracted by...
The door swung open and any thoughts of talking—not to mention her ability to talk at all—deserted her. Nick stood framed in the doorway, a skimpy hotel towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He was still damp from the shower, those washboard abs she’d speculated about earlier on full display.
So much for not being distracted.
He leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re not Garrett.”
“I-I’m sorry for barging in like this,” she stammered, finding her voice and trying not to ogle the firm, wet flesh of his bare chest and arms. She swallowed. Hard. “Guess I should have called first.”
“No, it’s...it’s fine.” He stepped back to wave her in and the towel slipped to his hips, giving her a view of the trail of fine, dark hair leading from his navel to the promised land. She licked her lips. “Just give me a minute to put something on.”
Don’t bother on my account.
“You can wait in here.” He led her into a sunken living room, complete with not one but two plush sofas and a Steinway piano, and disappeared into what she presumed was the bedroom.
Heart pounding, she wandered to the piano, setting her clutch down and fingering the keys. “Do you play?” she called out, desperate to fill the awkward silence.
“No,” he answered from the other room. “Garrett insisted I have the Presidential Suite. I’d have been happy in a regular guest room, but Garrett’s a top-of-the-line kind of guy.”
She left the piano and moved to a wall of windows overlooking Times Square, absorbing the spectacular view. Almost as spectacular as the view of Nick’s butt in that towel...
“He can be a jerk when things aren’t going his way, but I trust him,” Nick continued as he came back into the lounge. “He’s got my best interests at heart.”
Holly turned from the window to face him. Holy hotness, Batman! He’d zipped himself into another pair of jeans, just as snug as the ones he’d had on before but even more faded and ripped at one knee, and was buttoning a light gray sports shirt. He padded toward her on bare feet with the easy grace of a man comfortable in his own skin.
If she could bottle that self-confidence and sell it, she’d be a millionaire. Or maybe he could give her lessons....
He lowered himself onto one of the couches and motioned for her to join him, but she shook her head. She could barely think straight with him all the way across the room. She didn’t stand a chance up close and personal.
“So what brings you here?” he asked. “Ted and Judith send you to change my mind?”
She wanted to tell him the truth. Really, she did. But when she opened her mouth, something entirely different came out. “Not exactly. I, uh, wanted to apologize. For my behavior today in the conference room. I was inexcusably rude.”
He glanced at the platinum Rolex on his left wrist. “You came all the way across town at rush hour to apologize?” He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. His biceps bulged beneath his shirt sleeves.
Her mouth went dry. Good Lord, the man was unsettling. “Well, yes. It was such a surprise, seeing you. I reacted...poorly.”
Right. And Shakespeare just scribbled down a few poems and plays.
“So you don’t want to strong-arm me into auditioning?” He fixed her with a piercing stare that she did her best to meet head-on.
“Do I look like I could strong-arm anyone?”
“You look...” the same eyes that had just tried to intimidate her with their intensity raked her up and down, leaving her tingling and breathless “...stunning.”
She shivered and stepped back, leaning against the piano for support. One word—one look—and she was ready to throw off her clothes and beg him to do her in every yoga position imaginable.
This was wrong. All wrong. She never should have come. How did Ted and Judith and especially Ethan expect her to keep her pants on when faced with a force of nature like Nick? She wasn’t exactly a femme fatale. More like a poor man’s Cinderella, all dressed up for the ball, waiting for the stroke of midnight to reveal her as a complete fraud. Certainly no match for the charm and sophistication of Nick Damone.
“Thanks.” She wiped her clammy hands on the legs of her linen pants. “But all this—” she indicated her new hairdo, makeup and clothes “—it’s not really me. I’m more of a just-rolled-out-of-bed, jeans-and-T-shirt kind of gal. Nothing like the glamorous women you’re always photographed with.”
His smile put her in mind of a wolf eyeing a sheep before the kill. “Exactly.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that and she wasn’t dumb—or brave—enough to stick around and find out. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She snatched her clutch off the piano. “Thanks for flying all the way out here to meet with us. I’m sorry it was all for nothing....”
“What does your husband think about you coming to my hotel room like this?”
“My...what?”
“You know, your husband. Mr. Ryan. The man you married.” He sat straighter, his eyes flashing. “Does he know you’re here?”
The last thing she wanted to discuss with Nick was her pathetic excuse for a husband. But she supposed she owed Nick the truth—or part of it.
“I don’t have a husband. Not anymore. I’m divorced.”
* * *
HOT DAMN!
Nick knew his reaction was wrong. No matter the circumstances, divorce wasn’t something to celebrate. But his head couldn’t reason with his heart, which was doing a little happy dance.
She. Wasn’t. Married.
Lusting after her from afar would have been torture. But now she was free. Fair game. They could work and play together.
Warning bells went off in the back of his head. She’s a forever kind of girl, Damone. And you don’t do forever. In fact, you don’t do relationships. Period.
But his happy-dancing heart—or maybe the dancing was coming from somewhere a bit farther south—drowned it out. There was no way he was passing up the second chance given to him by God, or fate, or whatever cosmic force had brought them together again.
Plus, if anyone could help him get past his learning disability and claim this role, it was her. Hell, she’d written the damn thing. She’d know the characters inside out. Plus, she was the smartest person he’d ever met. With her help, he’d wow Spielberg and everyone else in Hollywood who doubted his acting chops.
Nick smoothed down the front of his shirt and stretched one arm along the back of the couch. This could turn out to be his lucky break. In more ways than one.
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised to find that a part of him really was. Not that she was available, but that she’d had to endure the pain that always came with divorce.
She shrugged, the hint of a smile playing around her lips. “I’m not.”
“Any kids?”
As suddenly as it appeared, the trace of a smile vanished and her eyes took on a distant look. “No.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” She sounded wistful.
“Divorce is hard on kids.” Although he was pretty sure his childhood would have been a damn sight better—or at least more peaceful—if his parents had split up.
“I suppose.” She shook her head as if to clear it, and a little of the spark crept back into her eyes. “Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of my failed marriage...” She started for the door.
He sank back into the sofa, crossing an ankle over one knee. “You honestly didn’t come here to get me to audition?”
She froze. “Are you always this suspicious?”
He shrugged. “Occupational hazard. You haven’t answered my question.”
“I do want you to audition. But it’s your decision, not mine.”
“That’s very Dr. Phil of you,” he said, sounding cynical even to his own ears. “But somehow I don’t think Ted and Judith share your concern for my feelings. If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d say they’re trying to cash in on our friendship.”
“I’m not privy to their innermost thoughts.” Holly drew herself up and pursed her lips. Man, she was hot when she went all schoolteacher. “And one conversation at a high school cast party hardly constitutes a friendship.”
Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, giving her the full force of his patented movie-star smile. “If memory serves, we did a little more than talk that night.”
“Did we?”
“Need a reminder?” He braced himself to stand.
“No!” She lost her grip on the ridiculously tiny sparkly thing she seemed to think was a purse, sending it clattering to the floor. “It’s been lovely catching up, but I’ve got another appointment.” She bent to pick it up so quickly she almost fell on her sweet little backside.
Oh, yeah. She remembered that kiss. And she’d been as turned on by it as much as he had.
Unfortunately, she was also on the run, halfway to the door.
He resisted the urge to jump up and grab her, not wanting to scare her any more than he already had. He needed to tone down the he-man antics if he had any hope of convincing her to stay. “Please stop.”
She didn’t.
“I was an ass.”
She hesitated, only inches from the door and freedom. “Now or then?”
“Both.”
She turned slowly, and met his gaze head-on. “Thank you.”
“Don’t go.” He slid over on the sofa, making room for her. “I’d like a chance to explain why I turned you down.” And that he’d since changed his mind.
“Now?” she asked with a smirk. “Or then?”
He winced. “Now.” He definitely wanted to focus on the present. Their present.
“I have another engagement.”
“No,” he said. “You don’t. Hear me out, Holly.”
She nodded stiffly, her already rosy cheeks deepening to a bright scarlet, and sat on the other couch, as far away from him as possible.
“Can I get you a drink? Or I can call room service if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” She took out her cell phone and glanced at the screen. “I can give you five minutes.”
Five minutes. Okay. He had this. He took a deep breath. “I walked out this afternoon because...” Because what? The air thinned when she was around? He couldn’t stop picturing her under him, panting? He wanted to pummel her ex-husband without even knowing the guy?
He stared at the place where her neck met her shoulder and tried like hell to think of something safe. Sunshine. Cotton candy. The box-office numbers from the last Savage picture.
“Is it the script?” she blurted. “I knew it. You don’t like the script.”
“That’s not it at all.” He got up and joined her on the other couch, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t shift away from him. “The script is brilliant. Moving and smart without being sappy. Not at all what I expected from a play dealing with domestic violence.”
She bristled and he knew he’d put his foot in his mouth. Again. “What did you expect? Some hackneyed, stereotypically pedantic melodrama?”
“To be honest, sweetheart, I don’t even know what half those words mean,” he joked, falling back on the dumb-jock routine he’d used in school to mask his learning disability. But he grew serious when he looked into her eyes, wide and stricken, filled with uncertainty.
He reached for her hand and was reminded of that night on the dock when their roles were reversed and he was the one unsure of his future, needing her encouragement. “But I do know a good script when I read one. And yours is good. Better than good.”
“If the script’s not the problem, then what is?” Damn, he could get lost in those deep green eyes.
“You’ve heard the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ right?”
“Of course, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Good.” And in a move of either sheer genius or monumental stupidity, he leaned in and kissed her, long and hard.
* * *
IT WAS HAPPENING AGAIN. Nick Damone was kissing her. And just like before, she couldn’t resist it. Couldn’t resist him. His touch, like a magnet, drawing her blood to the surface of her skin. His taste, like caramel, with a hint of Scotch.
Resist? Hell. Who was she kidding? She was responding to him like a sex-starved nympho. And while she’d admit to being sex-starved, she wasn’t a nymphomaniac. Yet. But if Nick kept kissing her like that...and that...and, oh, yes, that...
Everything else vanished into the vortex of Nick’s warm, hungry mouth. There was no play. No Ethan waiting for her to report on her mission. No Noelle or the rest of her family waiting to pick her up after yet another failure.
Only Nick.
Or, more specifically, Nick’s mouth, hot and insistent.
She hissed and arched into him as he skimmed a hand up her rib cage to her breast, cupping it through her blouse and brushing the soft silk across her nipple with his thumb. His other hand wound its way through her hair, keeping her head at the perfect angle for his heated kiss. He licked and nibbled and sucked at her lips from corner to corner until she thought she’d pass out from pure pleasure.
“Nick,” she panted when he finally paused to breathe. “I don’t think...”
“That’s right, sweetheart.” He disentangled his hand from her hair and with one finger traced the delicate shell of her ear. “Don’t think.” He followed his finger with his tongue. “Just feel.”
She was feeling, all right. For the first time since—well, long before her divorce—she was wild for a man. This man. The way his breath sent a current down her ear. The pricks on her skin from the scruff of his beard, lighting a path down.
Down.
And the hand on her breast... Oh, Lord. She shuddered as he teased first one, then the other, through her blouse, until her already aching nipples puckered into tight little buds.
“God...Nick.” Her head fell back, giving him greater access to the line of her neck. He drew a hot, wet trail from the sensitive spot behind her ear to the hollow at the base of her throat.
“So soft,” he murmured against her skin, wrapping his arms around her. “So sweet.” He pulled her closer, stroking her back until she was pressed against him so intimately she could feel every hard, solid inch of him. Especially the hard, solid inches pushing on her girl parts and making them all warm and tingly.
Her hips responded, rocking back and forth. Her hands moved, too, restless and hungry. They slid under his shirt and explored the ripped landscape of his chest and abdomen that her eyes had feasted on when he’d opened the door. Hot, hard muscle scorched her palms as her fingers threaded their way through the perfect smattering of silky, fine hair.
“Whoa, girl.” He grabbed her hips, stilling her, and gave her another one of those lazy, movie-star smiles. “Keep that up and I’m going to come before either of us gets naked.”
Naked. That one word sent a wave of terror through Holly. No one outside of a hospital had seen her naked since that night. That awful night when she’d told Clark she was leaving him. In the blink of an eye he’d gone from a controlling, manipulative bastard to a physically abusive one. An image of her stomach laced with angry red scars flashed through her brain. If Nick saw them...
Holly shuddered and forced herself to push away from him, creating at least a little distance between them even though his rip-cord arms still held her close. She’d been a fool to let things get this far. They had to stop. Now. Before he saw her scars and started pressing for answers she wasn’t ready to give him.
“I’m sorry, Nick. I can’t... We can’t...”
She braced for the explosion, the anger, the name-calling and blame. That’s what she would have gotten from Clark. Instead, Nick loosened his hold and let her slide to the opposite end of the couch. With that little bit of distance, the pressure that had been building inside her like a fast-rising river released.
“Don’t be sorry.” His lips curved into a smile, and his eyes, still dark with passion, met hers. “I’m not. Horny as hell, yeah. But not sorry.”
“Thanks.” She shook her head, bemused. How could he stay so cool and calm on the surface? Weren’t his insides churning like hers? “I think.” She started to get up, feeling shaken. “I should go now.”
He stood and offered her his hand. “I’ll show you out.”
“My purse?” She scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on a slip of sliver poking out from under the sofa.
He bent, picked it up and walked her to the door. “Like I said earlier, it’s nice seeing you.” He handed her the purse with a cheeky grin. “Again.”
“Same here.” She squared her shoulders and opened the door, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Not easy with her outfit stuck to her flushed skin and her throat as dry as a Thanksgiving turkey. “Thanks for meeting with us. And don’t worry about the play. I’m sure we’ll find someone wonderful for the part.”
He rested his big, beautiful frame against the wall. “I’m sure you will, sweetheart. I’m sure you will.”
The door swung shut behind her, putting sex god and heart-stopper Nick Damone in her past once and for all.
Holly took a few careful steps on wobbly sea legs, then collapsed against a column. She touched her lips, still swollen from Nick’s kiss, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
From the other side of the door she heard a low chuckle.
Relieved, she thought, striding down the hall with renewed determination. Definitely relieved.
And disappointed.
5 (#ulink_85264460-5cbb-50eb-bea3-8495b427f576)
“THIS IS ALL your fault.” Holly stabbed at a lettuce leaf and glared from Ethan to Noelle. Why had she agreed to meet them at the Westway, one of her favorite city restaurants? She couldn’t scream or throw things at them without risking getting thrown out. Or worse, banned. So instead, she had to be satisfied with massacring her poor innocent gorgonzola chicken salad.
It was a poor substitute.
“You.” She fixed her eyes on Noelle. “Dolling me up for him. And you.” Her gaze shifted to Ethan. “Sending me to his hotel room like a lamb to the slaughter.”
“Wait a minute.” Noelle turned on Ethan. “You told me it was her idea to go to Nick’s!”
“I never said it was Holly’s idea. I said she agreed to go.”
“But you made it seem like she was a willing participant.” Noelle eyed her sister across the table. “She doesn’t look so willing now.”
“It doesn’t matter whose idea it was,” Holly interrupted. “What matters is that I went. And it was an unmitigated disaster.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad.” Ethan sipped his mineral water. “Unless... Oh, my God. You slept with him, didn’t you?”
“She did not! She’s my sister. She doesn’t put out on a first date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” Holly pointed out.
“Even better. She’d never put out on a nondate.”
“Date, nondate.” Ethan shrugged. “We’re talking Nick Damone. Walking sex in jeans and oxfords. It’s more like fate. A gimme.”
“Thanks for the bad golf metaphor. And for thinking I’d throw myself at him, given the chance. I went there to talk, remember?”
“Don’t get mad, Holls.” He grinned at her over his burger. “We just need details.”
“Yeah. What was the penthouse like?”
“Forget that. How did he kiss?”
Holly repressed the urge to smile. Sure, they were nosy. And frustrating as all get-out. But they meant well. “All you need to know is there’s no way he’ll work with me now.”
“Actually...” Ethan and Noelle shared a nervous look and he went on, “Ted called this morning. Nick’s on board. He’s signing the contract as we speak.”
“What?” Holly’s fork clattered to the floor. The whole diner seemed to go quiet.
Noelle took her hand across the table. “We figured something must have happened between you two when you wouldn’t return our phone calls. That’s why I texted you to meet us here. We wanted to tell you ourselves. Together. In person.”
“In public,” Ethan added, scanning the crowded restaurant.
“You’ve got to stop this! I can’t face him. Not after yesterday.” Holly’s cheeks burned at the memory of how she’d gyrated on Nick like a porn star. What had she been thinking? Oh, wait, that’s right. She hadn’t been thinking. Not with her brain, anyway.
“It’s too late.” Ethan was apologetic but firm. “The contract’s a done deal. The investors are ecstatic.”
“We’re sorry, Holly.” Noelle’s voice was calm, reasonable and totally ineffective. “We never meant to hurt you. I swear.”
“We screwed up,” Ethan agreed. “Springing Nick on you. But we were only trying to help.”
“This can’t be happening.” Holly pushed her still-full plate away, but it was too late. Her stomach lurched, making an awful sloshing noise that she swore could have been heard all the way to Hoboken. She was going to hurl. Right there.
“Look at it this way.” Noelle poked at her own salad, sans chicken, cheese, nuts and dressing. Ballerinas! No wonder she was so darned skinny. “Whatever went on in that hotel room, it changed his mind about doing the show. And that was the point of your visit, right? So you done good.”
“Noelle’s right.” Ethan stuffed a French fry into his mouth. “This is a good thing. For everyone.”
Holly groaned and laid her head down on the table. “Not me.”
“Yes, you.” He nudged her under the table with his knee. “Didn’t your therapist say you needed to get over your fear of intimacy? Since you and Nick got down and dirty...”
“We did not get down and dirty!” Much.
“...it would seem you’ve got that hurdle cleared.”
“And there is no hurdle because I am not afraid of intimacy.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Noelle squeezed Holly’s hand. “If you’ve got a hurdle, Nick’s a great guy to jump.”
“I hate you.” Holly raised her head and shot them her best screw-you glower. “Both of you.”
“Hate us all you want, Hollypop.” Ethan flipped money onto the table for the check. “You’re still stuck with Nick for the next eight weeks. At least.”
Eight weeks. Eight long, excruciating weeks with the one man in the western hemisphere who could make her forget her name, address and Dramatists Guild number just by looking at her.
She was never going to make it.
Unless...
“Fine. But you have to promise me two things.” Holly pointed a finger at Ethan’s chest. “First, don’t ever call me Hollypop in front of Nick Damone.”
He nodded. “Done. What’s the second thing?”
“Whatever you do, do not—under any circumstances—leave me alone with him.”
* * *
NICK HAD TO find a way to get her alone.
He shifted in the painful metal folding chair. He should be focusing on the scene Malcolm and Marisa were rehearsing, or reviewing the script. Instead, he was fixated on Holly.
She was sitting only feet away across the tiny rehearsal room at Pearl Studios where they’d spent the majority of the past week, behind a table with Ethan and their stage manager, Jimmie Lee, looking more like the Holly he remembered from Stockton. She’d swapped the fancy clothes for cropped jeans and a flowery little top that did nothing to hide her cute little figure. The pink polish on her toes taunted him from the tips of her flip-flops. Her hair was brushed to one side like before but was softer now, her bangs falling gently across her forehead. And as far as he could tell, the only makeup she had on was that raspberry lip gloss he’d had so much fun kissing off.
But she might as well have been across the Grand Canyon for all the good it did him.
He continued to stare at her, trying to Jedi-mind-trick her into looking up from her script and acknowledging him. But just like every other damn day, she seemed intent on finding new ways to avoid him. Showing up at the last possible minute. Skipping out before lunch break. Running for the door the second they were done for the day.
How was he supposed to break down her defenses if she wouldn’t even look at him? Maybe he could—
“Does that work for you, Nick?”
He snapped to attention at Ethan’s voice. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t catch that,” he admitted, tapping his pencil on his script. “I was, um, making some notes on my character’s backstory.” And plotting how to win over the playwright.
“I’d like to run Malcolm and Marisa’s scene one more time to fine-tune the blocking, then pick up from your entrance at the top of act two.”
“Sure thing.”
“I need a break,” Malcolm huffed. “I’m dying of thirst. It’s, like, a thousand degrees in here. What kind of low-rent production is this anyway? First the power goes out, then your caterer gives us food poisoning, now the air conditioning’s on the fritz.” He dropped onto a folding chair, took a sip from a bottle of water one of the production assistants handed him and grimaced. “And can I get some Evian, for Christ’s sake? This cheap stuff tastes like crap.”
“What about Thing One and Thing Two?” Nick asked, noticing for the first time that Malcolm’s ever-present personal assistants, two recent Columbia film school grads eager for whatever showbiz scraps he threw their way, were missing. “Isn’t that their job?”
“Sean’s getting my dry cleaning. And Seth’s waiting for the movers to deliver my big-screen TV.”
Poor guys. Nick had left his assistant back home, to watch his house in Malibu and handle his fan mail. He wasn’t such a diva that he couldn’t go it alone for two months.
Unlike some people, he thought as Malcolm continued to gripe under his breath about the water.
“Take ten, everyone.” Ethan pulled a bill out of his wallet and handed it to the production assistant. “Can you run down to the deli at the corner of Eighth and Thirty-seventh and get Mr. Justice his water?”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, Wes.” Holly rewarded the PA with a dazzling smile, reminding Nick of yet another reason he was so drawn to her. She knew everyone’s name, even the interns. Refused to take the last bagel from the craft services table. Reacted to everything from a broken pipe to a dirty joke with a sense of humor and a quick laugh.
With a nod, Wes hurried out of the room, probably petrified “Mr. Justice,” as Malcolm insisted the crew call him, would chew his head off if he didn’t come back in under sixty seconds with a case of his precious Evian.
Self-centered, egotistical asshole.
But Nick didn’t have time to dwell on Malcolm Justice and his parade of character flaws. He had ten minutes—well, more like nine now—to get to Holly before she disappeared on him again. If he was lucky, maybe he could get her to bestow one of those dazzling smiles on him.
He stuck his pencil in his script and stashed it under his chair, ready to make his move, when he felt a soft tap on his shoulder.
“Excuse me, Mr. Damone?” Marisa Rodriguez stood next to him, nervously biting her lip. With him and Malcolm on board, the producers had taken a chance on the young, relatively inexperienced actress for the pivotal role of the abused wife. From what he’d seen so far, their risk was going to pay off. She had a wonderful, natural quality that couldn’t be taught in any acting class. “Can I ask you something?”
Nick snuck a glance at Holly and frowned. Ethan, her self-appointed bodyguard, had once again glued himself to her side. They sat together, shoulders touching, heads bowed over a copy of the script.
Jesus. The guy was like her freaking shadow. Nick wouldn’t be surprised to find out they went to the damn bathroom together. At first he thought maybe they were a couple, with their constant chatter, light touches and little laughs. That illusion had been blessedly blown to bits when Ethan’s boyfriend had shown up to meet him after rehearsal.
Still, Ethan needed to get accidentally locked in the prop room for a good half a day.
Overnight would be even better.
Nick turned back to his impressionable costar and flashed her a grin that he hoped was reassuring. “Of course.” He patted the chair next to him, and Marisa sat down. “But I keep telling you, call me Nick. After all, we are married, in a manner of speaking.”
She blushed and ducked her head, her mane of long dark curls covering her face. “Okay, Mr.... I mean, Nick.”
“Now that we’ve got that settled, what can I do for you?”
“I’m just curious.” She peered at him through her bangs. “You’ve done stage productions before, right?”
“It’s been a while, but yeah.”
“Are you nervous?”
“Not really,” he lied. “It’s like riding a bike. And nothing beats performing in front of a live audience. The instant response. The connection.” The chance that any minute you could forget your lines or your blocking. No one to bail you out by yelling, “Cut.”
“No, I mean because of the—” she stopped and looked around as if to make sure no one else was listening. When she spoke again, her voice was a whisper “—curse.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “The what?”
“The crew says we’re cursed. Because of all the weird stuff going on. You know. The bomb threat. The food poisoning. The blackout.”
Nick nodded, finally understanding. Of course Marisa would be worried. It was her plane that had been grounded by a bomb threat in Toronto, where she’d been wrapping a film, making her miss the first read-through. Then half the crew had gotten food poisoning from some bad sushi. And yesterday the power had gone out at Pearl, costing them half a day’s practice.
But all shows hit rough waters, and Nick wasn’t about to let Marisa drown in them. These were hiccups, not the Titanic.
“Nah,” he assured her. “Theater people are suspicious by nature.”
“Really?”
“Sure. That’s why we say ‘break a leg’ instead of ‘good luck.’ And leave a ghost light on onstage. And, most importantly, never, ever say or quote from Macbeth in a theater.”
Marisa tilted her head, looking confused. “What do you call it, then?”
“You don’t.” Nick chuckled. “Or, if you must, it’s the Scottish play.”
“That’s silly.”
“Yep. Like believing we’re cursed is silly.”
“I guess so. Thanks, Mr.... Nick. Sorry.” She stood and stretched, showing a wide expanse of her flat stomach that, in another lifetime, one before Holly had reappeared, would have had him itching to see more. Now he wasn’t interested. He ran a hand across his face, trying to erase the unfamiliar feeling.
“I think I’ll get a Diet Coke from the vending machine in the hall.” Marisa flipped her thick, dark curls over her shoulder. “Do you want anything?”
“No, thanks.” He picked up a stainless-steel water bottle with the UCONN Huskies logo on it from the floor next to his chair. “Tap water’s good enough for me.”
“Score one for you,” she said, her eyes flicking to Malcolm before she bounded off.
Nick leaned back in his chair, a trace of an amused smile playing around his lips. Smart girl. Perceptive, too. She was going to do just fine in this business.
He took a long, cool drink from the Huskies bottle and checked his watch. Ethan’s ten minutes were almost up, and Wes and the Evian were still conspicuously absent. But instead of ranting and raving like the first-rate prima donna everyone knew he was, Malcolm was perched on the edge of the table next to Holly, with Ethan nowhere in sight.
Shit. The bastard had swooped in before Nick could react to the fact that she’d finally lost her guard dog. He’d been fawning all over her at every possible opportunity from the first day of rehearsal. Bringing her coffee in the morning. Complimenting her word choices in the script. Touching her whenever—wherever—he could.
Like now. Malcolm pulled a strand of her hair from his mouth and gave a low laugh.
Nick’s fists clenched. If the guy got any closer his tongue would be in her eardrum. And at the rate it was drifting downward, the hand lazily caressing her back would be on her ass before long.
If Ethan was getting locked in a closet, Malcolm was going into a Dumpster with a thick chain and padlock. And maybe a couple of hungry rats.
Nick sprang from his chair, slamming it into the wall behind him with a loud clang. Fuck this. He was done standing by while freaking Malcolm Justice made time with the woman who, barely more than a week ago, was melting into his kiss, panting at his touch, moaning his name.
Something had scared her off that day in his hotel room. One minute she’d been all over him, meeting his tongue thrust for thrust and grinding against him so hard he’d almost shot his load then and there. The next she was running for the door. He’d waited long enough to find out what had spooked her. Today he was getting some answers.
* * *
OH, CRAP.
Holly’s stomach sank as she saw Nick stalking toward her, his forehead creased, the lips that had kissed her so wantonly pressed together.
“Excuse me, Malcolm,” she said, interrupting another of his self-absorbed stories. This one, as far as she could tell, was building up to how he’d outsmarted Scorsese. “I’d better see if Ethan and the others have any questions.”
“Justice.” Nick cut in before she could break away. “You won’t mind if I steal our illustrious author for a few minutes.”
Malcolm reached for Holly’s wrist but she shook him off. “As a matter of fact, I would.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Damone.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Stop, both of you!” Holly’s head ached from pinging back and forth between them. “You’re acting like a couple of overgrown frat boys, arguing over me as if I weren’t standing right in front of you.”
They continued to glare at each other over her head for a moment, making her feel a little like a choice sirloin in the middle of two hungry dogs. Was it possible to be flattered and disgusted at the same time?
Nick was the one to finally concede the staring contest. “Holly.” He put a hand on her elbow, his touch not demanding but imploring, those beautiful brown eyes sucking her in closer. Heat spread from his fingers to her traitorous girlie bits. “I just need a few minutes of your time. To...discuss my role.”
“Don’t you mean ‘show you my etchings’?” Malcolm leered.
Nick’s attention didn’t waver from Holly. “Please.”
If he had begged, pleaded, ranted, raved—anything but that one simple, quiet word—she could have fought him.
Two more weeks. That’s all she needed. Then they’d be in the Deville, the theater they’d call home for the foreseeable future. She’d be able to keep her distance from him in that cavern, her in the house with the rest of the creative team and him up onstage or in the wings.
But no. He’d managed to corner her today in the cramped rehearsal room, all intense and brooding and yeah, mouthwateringly hot in a Mr. Darcy kind of way, with those puppy-dog eyes and his hair flopping over his brows, a tad long and just this side of presentable.
“You don’t have to go with him, Holly.” Malcolm went for her wrist again but she managed to sidestep him. Ugh. He was a good actor, she’d give him that. Good-looking, too, although he didn’t make her stammer like a fool or bump into the furniture. That was apparently reserved for Nick.
But as talented and handsome as he was, Malcolm couldn’t take a hint to save his life. She’d told him flat-out that she wasn’t interested in him. But he still insisted on hounding her, at her side practically every time she turned around. The only plus was it had kept Nick at bay. Until now.
“It’s okay.” As if she really had a choice. Better to get it over with, painful but quick. “We won’t be long.”
“You’re going to let this guy—”
“I’m not going to ‘let’ him do anything.” She gave a meaningful look to both men. After Clark—and a fair amount of therapy—she’d made up her mind not to let any man have that kind of power over her ever again. And these two were no exception. She was the one calling the shots now. “But I am going to talk to him.”
Nick’s hand on her elbow gently navigated her to the door as he called over his shoulder to Malcolm, “Tell Ethan we’ll be down the hall, in studio G. If we’re not back in time, start without us.”
“I’m not your errand boy, Damone.”
“Then have Sean or Seth do it. It’s a step above the crap you usually palm off on them.” Nick continued down the hall, pulling Holly along with him. He didn’t speak again until they were inside the room with the door closed.
“Start talking.”
She arched a brow at him. “What?”
“You told Justice you were going to talk to me. So talk.”
“About your role?”
“You know damn well that’s not why I brought you here.”
“I’m not a mind reader.” She shook his hand off her elbow and stepped away from him, making her raging hormones scream in protest. Not to mention her conscience. Giving Nick the cold shoulder went against every rule of politeness and common decency she’d had drummed into her since childhood. But it was a matter of self-preservation, pure and simple. “If this isn’t about the show, we have nothing to discuss.”
“Like hell we don’t.” He crossed his arms, looking yummy with his long denim-clad legs braced apart, his biceps straining at his shirt sleeves.
“What do you want from me, Nick?”
“I want to know what kind of game you’re playing.”
“Game?”
“First me. Now Justice.” Nick’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tight.
Holly gaped at him. He was jealous! Nick Damone was actually jealous. Over her. She covered her mouth and let out a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just wondering about the pigs.”
“Pigs?” The tension around his eyes relaxed and his mouth curved into the tiniest hint of a smile.
The ones that must be flying over the Manhattan skyline. “Never mind.” She scraped her hands through her hair. He made her crazy. “Look, nothing’s going on between me and Malcolm. Or me and you, for that matter.”
“You sure about that?” His wicked chocolate eyes, almost black with need, lasciviously perused her from head to toe and back again.
“Yes,” she choked out through a heavy swallow, her heart racing.
“You can’t run forever, Holly.”
She sighed, knowing he was right. “I can sure as heck try.”
“You’re going to have to try a lot harder to shake me, sweetheart.” He pushed off the doorframe, chest muscles rippling under his tight T-shirt—darn it if her own chest didn’t rise to attention—and started toward her.
She took two steps back—straight into a table.
“See?” He inched one leg between hers and braced a hand on the tabletop. “No more running.”
“It certainly seems that way.” She took a deep breath meant to steady her. Instead it brought her closer to him, brushing her already aching nipples against his rock-hard pecs and making her shiver.
“So you’re ready to admit defeat?”
She raised herself up on tiptoe, her lips only inches from his. “I—”
The door flung open to reveal Wes, back from his errand, red-faced and wheezing.
“Nick, Holly! Come quick! You’re not gonna believe this!”
“What is it?” Holly silently thanked the powers that be for the interruption.
“The Deville’s on fire!”
6 (#ulink_6de3f225-3916-544f-9bee-afee00b83fcb)
HOLLY STARED, GLASSY-EYED and numb, at the TV screen above the bar, showing the smoldering Deville for the umpteenth time. How could she be dead-tired and wide-awake at the same time?
The fire was out but the damage was done. They’d never find another theater before losing their cast.
Two years of planning. Up in smoke.
She tapped her glass on the gleaming oak bar. “Can I get a refill, Devin?”
“You sure?” The bartender grabbed the remote from under the counter and switched the channel to one of the sports networks. Baseball. Much better, even if the Yankees were getting spanked by the Blue Jays. “It’s a lot stronger than your usual.”
“I’m sure.” After today, she needed something way more potent than a mudslide.
“Okay.” Devin grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind her and poured two fingers of rich amber liquid into Holly’s glass. “But after this I’m switching you to Kahlúa and milk.”
“Killjoy.” Holly took a sip and coughed. Why anyone drank Scotch was beyond her. But tonight she wanted—no, needed—to get drunk, so Scotch it was.
“Looks to me like there’s not much joy to kill.”
Holly sighed. Her friend was right. Tonight there was no joy in Mudville. Flighty Holly had struck out.
Watching the Deville burn on the news had been surreal. The cast and crew had all huddled around Ethan’s laptop, silent. A few of them had wanted to head over to the theater, but Ted and Judith—when they weren’t sniping at each other—convinced them they’d only get in the way. After about a dozen replays, they’d sent almost everyone home with the promise of an email by morning. Only Holly, Ethan and the company manager had stayed, frantically calling every theater in a twenty-block radius.
The Helen Hayes was too small. The Gershwin too big. The Lyceum was just right but unavailable. As were the Cort, the Booth and the Walter Kerr. Four hours of speed dialing and all they had to show for it were sore fingers and an air of desperation.
“Go home, Holly,” Ethan had ordered when she laid her head on the table and let gravity and fatigue keep it there. “We’ve got things covered here. I’ll call you if anything pans out.”
She pushed herself upright on leaden arms. There had to be something more she could do. Make a latte run. Recharge phones. Pay a visit to someone and beg.
Oh, wait. She’d already done that with Nick, and look where that had gotten her.
Ethan had won out in the end. Sort of. She’d gone, but not home. Instead, she’d stopped by Naboombu, the cozy underground bar around the corner from her East Village apartment, where Devin Padilla, her upstairs neighbor and best NYC gal pal, tended bar. If Holly was going to drown her sorrows, she could count on Devin to drag her home.
They made an odd pair. Holly, the suburban-housewife refugee. Devin, with her multiple piercings and tattoos. But Devin’s recent bad breakup had required just as much ice cream as Holly’s divorce, and they’d commiserated over multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra.
“So what happens now?” Devin picked up a cloth and swirled circles down the length of the bar.
Holly knocked down another swig of Scotch. “Beats me.”
She checked her cell phone for what must have been the hundredth time. No messages. Four bars. And yes, the ringer was on high. “But if this show goes belly-up before it even opens, it’ll take years for me to get another shot at Broadway.”
“Why? It’s not your fault the place burned down.”
“That’s not the point. The fire’s just the latest—and worst—in a string of catastrophes. It’s like the show’s doomed. No one’s going to want to take a chance on it. Or on me.”
A man at the opposite end of the bar raised his empty mug and eyeballed Devin. With a sympathetic look at Holly, she tossed the cloth onto her shoulder and went to refill the guy’s beer, leaving Holly alone with her Scotch and fatalistic attitude. A dangerous combination, if there ever was one. What if they couldn’t find another theater? What if the show had to be canceled? What if Nick left town and they never got a chance to finish what they’d started in his hotel room?
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