by Nora Roberts
“Let’s try drinking it first.” She signaled to Larry, then found two seats in a relatively quiet corner. When she saw Quinn start to approach, she shook her head and leaned closer to Don. “It’s a tough scene.”
“It shouldn’t be.” He ran a hand through a mass of thick dark hair.
“Look, the order they’re shooting this miniseries in, we’ve only had a couple of scenes together so far. The first thing you know, we’re married and on our honeymoon.” She took the coffee from Larry. “I don’t know about you, but I think it’s easier to jump into bed with someone if you have more than a passing acquaintance.”
He held the coffee in both hands and managed a chuckle. “I’m supposed to be an actor.”
“Me, too.”
“You could run through this scene with your eyes closed.” He sipped the coffee, then, with a sound of disgust, set it aside. “I’ll be honest. You intimidate the hell out of me.” When she only lifted a brow, he let out a long breath and looked away. “When my agent called and told me I had this part and that I’d be playing opposite you, I almost went into a coma.”
“That makes it tough to work up any passion.” She put a hand on his. “Look, your reading with me was great. No one else even came close.”
“The bit in Hailey’s art studio.” He picked up his coffee with a rueful look. “Not a bed in sight.”
“The first love scene I ever played was opposite Scott Baron. Hollywood legend—the world’s sexiest man. I had to kiss him, and my teeth were chattering, I was so scared. He took me aside, bought me a tuna-fish sandwich and told me stories, half of which were certainly lies. Then he told me something true. He said all actors are children and all children like to play games. If we didn’t play the game well, we’d have to grow up and get real jobs.”
The tension she’d spotted around his mouth had already relaxed. “Did it work?”
“It was either that or the tuna fish, but we went back on the set and played the game.”
“You stole that movie from him.”
She smiled. “I’ve heard it said.” She continued to smile as she sipped coffee. “Don’t think I’m going to let you steal this one from me.”
“You blew that last line on purpose.”
She could become a prima donna with little more than a tilt of her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You have a reputation for being cold and driven,” he mused. “I never expected you to be, well, nice.”
“Don’t let it get around.” Rising, she offered him a hand. “Let’s get this honeymoon off the ground.”
The scene went like clockwork. Quinn didn’t know what Chantel had said during her brief huddle with her costar, but it had done the trick. For himself, he was learning not to tense up when Chantel was in someone else’s arms. It was difficult to work up any resentment when so much technology went into setting the scene. The lights had to be adjusted to simulate candlelight. Chantel and Don lay in the bed, he stripped to the waist, she in a thigh-length chemise. The camera was nearly on top of them. The director knelt on the bed and went over the moves. On cue, Chantel and Don turned to each other as if they were the only two people on earth.
It was so easy for her, Quinn reflected, to fabricate passion. When he watched her like this, he wondered if she had any real feelings at all. Her emotions were turned off and on as direction indicated. Like an exquisitely crafted puppet, he thought, beautifully formed on the outside, hollow within.
Yet he’d held her himself. He’d felt passion shimmer in her. The feelings, needs, uncertainties had been there for him to touch. Had that been just part of her act as well? It shouldn’t matter to him, he reminded himself as he lighted a cigarette. He couldn’t let it matter. She was an assignment and nothing more. If she stirred feelings in him, as she did with uncanny regularity, he would just have to take a step back. Involvement with a woman like Chantel O’Hurley was suicide for a man who didn’t have himself under complete control.
But when he looked at her, his mouth went dry.
Just desire, he told himself. Or, more accurately, lust. There was no denying that wanting her was as easy, as natural, as drawing breath. But it hadn’t been desire or lust he had felt when he’d held her in his arms moments ago.
So he had some compassion left in him. Quinn found a chair, then discovered he was too wired to sit. He’d have been pretty low if he hadn’t felt sympathy or been able to offer comfort to a frightened and vulnerable woman.
But it hadn’t been sympathy, it had been rage. He recognized it even now, that hot, bubbling fury at the thought of his woman being threatened. His woman. That was the problem. The longer he was with her, the easier it became to think of her as his.
Take a step back from that, Doran, he ordered himself. And make it fast. If he didn’t pull himself together soon, he was going to be in over his head. A man could only hold his breath for so long.
He crushed out his cigarette and wished the interminable day would end.
There had been two more letters that week, letters he hadn’t shown her. The tone had shifted from pleading to near whimpering. It worried Quinn more than the subtle menace the earlier letters had contained. The author was about to break. When he did, Quinn was certain it would be like a geyser, fast and violent. Because his own patience was thin, he hoped it would be soon. It would give him some outlet for the fury building inside him.
“That’s a wrap, people. Don’t have too much fun over the weekend. We want you alive and coherent on Monday.”
Still in her chemise, Chantel sat on the edge of the bed and held an earnest conversation with Don. Jealousy. Where it had come from and why, Quinn couldn’t begin to answer. Quinn had always been a live-and-let-live sort of person. If a woman, even a woman he was involved with, decided to look to another man, that was her prerogative. No strings, no pain, no complications. He’d managed very well that way for years. He’d never experienced this sharp twist in the gut over a woman before. He felt it now, and he didn’t like it, or himself. Unable to stop himself, he walked over and drew Chantel to her feet.
“Playtime’s over,” he said, and pulled her with him.
“Let go of me,” she told him under her breath as he walked toward her trailer. Larry started forward with her robe, saw the look on Quinn’s face and backed away.
“Just shut up.”
“Doran, this is my place of business, but if you keep it up, I’m going to create the biggest, juiciest scene even your twisted brain can imagine. You’ll read about it in the paper for weeks.”
“Go ahead.”
She set her teeth. “Just what is your problem?”
“You’re my problem, lady. For a woman who should be watching her step, you were awfully chummy with that kid.”
“Kid? Don? For God’s sake, he’s an associate, and he’s not a kid. He’s two years older than I am.”
“You were steaming up his contact lenses.”
“Don’t you get tired of playing the same tune?” She jerked her arm free and pulled open her dressing room door herself. “If you’ve been doing your job, you already have a report on Don Sterling, and you know he’s practically engaged to a woman he’s been involved with for two years.”
“And the woman in question is three thousand miles away in New York.”
“I know that.” As she pushed her hair out of her face, the chemise shifted, whispering silkily over her skin. “He was just telling me that he’s going to catch the red-eye to the east coast so that he can spend the weekend with her. He’s in love, Doran, though I realize you might not understand the term.”
“A man could be in love with another woman and still want you.”
She slammed the trailer door and leaned back against it. “What would you know about love? What would you know about any genuine emotion?”
“You want emotion?” He slapped his palms on the door at either side of her head. Though her eyes widened in shock, she stood firm. “You want a taste
of the kind of emotion you push out of a man? The real thing, angel, not something out of the pages of a script. Think you can take it?”
Her heart was beating in her throat. It was crazy to actually want to be dragged against him, to be plundered, drained and weakened. She could see nothing but raw fury in his eyes, but somehow she relished it. If it was all he could feel for her, it was almost enough. She’d be willing to settle, and that scared the hell out of her.
“Just leave me alone,” she whispered.
“You’re smart to be scared of me.”
“I’m not scared of you.”
He leaned a little closer. “You’re trembling.”
“I’m furious.” She pressed her damp palms against the door.
“Maybe you are. And maybe that’s because you’re not quite sure of what happens next. It’s not written out for you, is it, Chantel? Not so easy to turn the switch off and on.”
“Get out of my way.”
“Not just yet. I want to know what you feel.” His body pressed lightly against hers. “I want to know if you feel.”
She was losing ground, and what she had left was shaky. If he touched her now, really touched her, she was afraid she would lose everything. How could she tell him what she felt, when what she felt was against all the rules? She wanted to be held, protected, cherished, loved. If she told him that, he’d only smile and take what he wanted. She’d been left empty before, and it would never, ever happen to her again.
Chantel lifted her chin and waited until his lips hovered an inch from hers. “You’re no better than the man I hired you to protect me from.”
He stepped back as if she’d slapped him. The stunned look on his face made her want to reach out to him. Instead, she pressed back against the door and waited for his next move.
“Get some clothes on,” he told her, and turned aside. As she walked away, he reached into the refrigerator for a beer. She was right. Quinn twisted off the top and took two long swallows. He’d wanted to frighten, to weaken, then take her there, on his terms. If he could have proven to himself that what happened between them was cold and calculated, he might have believed she meant nothing to him.
He’d wanted to hurt her. She was threatening his peace of mind, and he’d needed to strike back. He would have used sex to purge himself and to repay her for the restless nights. The wave of self-disgust was as unfamiliar and as unpalatable as the surge of jealousy he’d felt earlier.
He’d told himself to take a step back, yet he’d taken a leap forward and had landed in the mire. He’d done things and seen things in his life that would have left others pale and speechless. Yet, for the first time in his life, he felt truly soiled.
When he heard her coming back, he tossed the bottle into the trash. She wore rose-colored linen slacks and a jacket with a muted floral design. She looked cool, composed and nothing like the restless, questing character she’d played all day.
Without a word she walked by him and put her hand on the knob. Before she could open the door, Quinn placed his hand over hers. He cursed himself when she stiffened and sent him a cool, disinterested look.
“You’re entitled to take a few shots,” he said mildly. “I won’t even duck.”
For a moment she said nothing. Then, as the anger dissipated, she sighed. She was tired, drained from the constant play and replay of emotion. “I’ll take a rain check.”
As she twisted the knob, he tightened his hand on hers. “Chantel …”
“What?”
He wanted to apologize. It wasn’t his style, but he wanted badly to tell her he was sorry. The need was there, but the words wouldn’t come. “Nothing. Let’s go.”
They rode home in silence while guilt ate at him. It would fade, he assured himself. It was just one more of the odd emotions she drew out of him. She looked exhausted now, though he remembered she’d looked fine—in fact, she’d looked wonderful—before he’d …
Damn it, he couldn’t waste his time worrying about things like that. He had a job to do, and if he’d stepped out of line, it wouldn’t happen again. Case closed. He’d see her into the house, make certain the doors were locked and the alarm on. Then he’d relax. He needed to go over the report from his field man, though he was already aware they’d turned up nothing on the stationery. They needed a mistake. So far, no matter how mentally unstable Chantel’s admirer was, he’d been smart.
Quinn sat back as the limo cruised through the gates, wishing he could say the same thing about himself.
He preferred to act on impulse. As he stepped out of the car, he didn’t hesitate or think twice. Taking Chantel by the hand, he began to lead her around the side of the house.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s Friday night and I’m sick of being cooped up in that house. We’re going out to eat.” He stopped by his car and nodded to one of the men who patrolled the grounds.
“Did it ever occur to you that I might not feel like going out?”
“Where I go, you go.” He opened the door and started to nudge her inside.
“Doran, I’ve put in sixty hours this week and I’m tired. I don’t want to go to a restaurant and be stared at.”
“Who said anything about a restaurant? Just get in, angel. You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of my man over there.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I am.” He gave her a quick shove, then shut the door behind her.
“Has anyone ever mentioned that you’re totally lacking in manners or any of the other social graces?”
“Constantly.”
He gunned the motor and sent the car barreling down the drive. Chantel reached for her seat belt. “If you wreck this heap with me in it, the producers are going to have your head on a platter.” For a moment she wondered if it wouldn’t be worth it.
“Nervous?”
“You don’t make me nervous, Doran, you simply annoy me.”
“Everyone’s got to be good at something.” He turned the radio dial, and loud, throbbing rock poured out. Chantel closed her eyes and pretended to ignore him.
When the car came to a halt, she didn’t move. Determined to show nothing but indifference, she sat still as the silence grew. Outside the car she heard the bump and grind of weekend traffic heating up. She had no idea where they were and told herself she didn’t care. Quinn’s door opened and closed, and she still didn’t move. But she did open her eyes.
She saw him stride up to the little fast-food joint and fought back a chuckle. She would not be amused. At home she could have had a nice glass of wine and a crisp salad with her cook’s special herb dressing. God knew what Quinn was carrying back to the car in the white bag. She simply wouldn’t eat, she told herself. She’d let him get whatever he had in his system out, but she wouldn’t eat.
Closing her eyes again, she tried not to react as aromas, really wonderful aromas, filled the car. He glanced over, smiled, then started the car again.
Again she didn’t know where he was heading, but the road began to wind and the sounds of traffic faded. She very nearly dozed off as her system absorbed the quiet sunset drive. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to get away, from work, from her house, maybe from herself. It was going to be hard not to be grateful to him. But Chantel told herself she would manage.
When the car stopped again, she refused to move. Curiosity gnawed at her, but she kept her eyes firmly shut. Saying nothing, Quinn reached for the bag, rattling it so that the scent seeped through the car. Then he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
Chantel’s stomach contracted, reminding her that the plate of fruit and cheese she’d had for lunch wasn’t enough. The least he could do was force her to eat something, the way he’d forced her to do other things she hadn’t wanted to. But no, she thought as her temper began to rise, he would just go off and gobble up whatever was in that bag and let her starve.
Opening her eyes, Chantel pushed open her door. As she let it slam behind her, the noise seem
ed to echo forever. Astonished, she looked around her.
They were farther up in the hills than she had ever gone before. Below, miles below, L.A. stretched forever, glistening just a bit as lights winked on. She could see the separate levels of color in the sky as the sun went down. Deep blue led to paler blue, and paler blue to mauve and rose and pink, all glistening with gold. The first star blinked to life overhead and waited patiently for others to join it. The breeze whistled through the brush, but the city she knew so well seemed encased in glass, it was so quiet.
“Pretty impressive, isn’t it?”
She turned and saw Quinn leaning against a giant H. The Hollywood sign, she realized, and nearly laughed. She’d seen it so often it no longer registered. From the hills it looked white, invulnerable and perhaps immortal. Up close, like the town it heralded, it was mostly illusion. It was big and bold, certainly, but a little grimy, a little shaky. Graffiti was etched in clumps near the base.
“It could use a fresh coat of paint,” she murmured.
“No, it’s more honest this way.” He kicked aside a beer can. “Teenagers come up here to hang out—and make out.”
She tilted her head. “And you?”
“Oh, I just like the view.” He climbed over a few rocks effortlessly and planted himself on the base of an L. “And the quiet. If you’re lucky, you can come up here and not hear a thing, except for a coyote now and again.”
“Coyote?” She glanced over her shoulder.
“That’s right.” Not bothering to hide a grin, he dug in the bag. “Want a taco?”
“A taco? You dragged me all the way up here to eat tacos?”
“Got some beer.”
“Lovely.”
“It’s getting warm. You’d better drink up.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Suit yourself.” He unwrapped a taco and bit into it. “Got some fries, too,” he said with a full mouth. “A little greasy, maybe, but they’re not cold yet.”
“I don’t know how I can resist.” She turned away from him to look down at the city again. As fate would have it, the breeze carried the spicy scents to her. Her mouth watered. Chantel scowled down at the lights and wished Quinn Doran to hell.