Aztec Sun

by Judith Arnold

  A muffled groan escaped him, and he dipped his head lower, taking her mouth completely. His lips urged hers apart and his tongue forged deep. Gentleness yielded to hunger, greed, aggression.

  Her legs trembled. Her abdomen ached. Her hands clenched against his back; her breasts felt heavy and tender, crushed against the hard wall of his chest. She shouldn’t want this. She didn’t.

  Yet her body defied her, leaning into him, letting a dark surge of desire engulf her. He was the eclipse now, blocking out the last of the fading daylight, blocking out her reason for being here, her ambition, her longing for the big story, the big headline—everything she’d ever wanted.

  Right now, she wanted only one thing: Rafael’s kiss.

  The muscles in his back flexed against her fingers. He brought his arms around her in a tight, possessive circle, drawing her fully to himself, letting her feel the changes in him, the raggedness of his breath and the motion of his hips as his arousal became evident. Then, so suddenly she reeled from it, he tore his mouth from hers and took a step back.

  He was still breathing unevenly. His hands curled into fists at his sides. His eyes glinted, reflecting a light the source of which Sandra couldn’t begin to guess.

  She swallowed and lifted her hand to her lips. They burned with the imprint of his kiss. Her tongue still held his flavor; her blood still carried his sensual message to every cell in her body.

  Dear God. She was a reporter. Rafael Perez was her story. If he could overpower her that easily, she wasn’t worth the salary Flannagan was paying her.

  She struggled to wrap herself in what few shreds of dignity she had left. “Don’t you ever kiss me like that again,” she muttered, her voice hoarse and raw.

  A faint smile skipped across Rafael’s lips—the lips she had tasted, the lips that had proven how very vulnerable she could be to him. As soon as it appeared, the smile was gone. “Same goes for me, dulcinea,” he murmured, then turned and stalked out of the alley.

  Sandra sank against the dusty adobe wall and tried to collect her wits. Her mind filled with explanations for what had just happened.

  Rafael was just attempting to throw her off balance. He wanted to intimidate her. She’d overreacted because it had been so long since she’d fallen hard for a man.

  Not that she’d fallen for Rafael, hard or soft or any way at all. But he was sexy, there was no denying it. And he certainly knew how to kiss.

  And how to touch. How to cradle a woman in his large, strong arms, how to guide her with his hands and seduce her with his tongue. How to stand so tall in front of her that she could believe, for a few crazy minutes, that he was the sum of her world.

  When a man dragged a woman into an alley, something bad usually happened.Wasn’t that the truth, she thought miserably. As she pushed away from the wall and wandered out of the alley on wobbly legs, she forced herself to acknowledge that she might not have emerged in one piece from this encounter with Rafael, after all.

  ***

  TURNING THE CORNER, he broke into a run. A jog, just fast enough to burn off the tension without calling undue attention to himself. Just fast enough to put as much distance as possible as quickly as possible between himself and Sandra Garcia.

  He must have been insane, kissing her like that. He must have lost his head. Control was essential, and something about Sandra made it much too easy for him to lose control.

  He slowed his pace as he neared the studio entrance. Greeting the guard with a nod, he strode through the gate. Once he was safely inside, his breathing back to normal and his heart no longer racing, he grinned at the comprehension that Sandra had been as out of control as he. Whatever had occurred in the alley behind Cesar’s, it had hit her equally hard.

  When he’d come upon her at Cesar’s, pumping his people for information about his sister, he’d wanted to hit her. Violence was something he’d learned to avoid, but for one furious moment he’d wanted—well, not to hit her, but to grab her by the shoulders and shake her until her bones rattled, until her pretty brown eyes filled with tears she begged him to forgive her. How dare she grill Hector and Vinnie about Rosa? Rosa teased him that he was an overbearing idiota when it came to her, but that was an accusation he wore with honor.

  The outdoor lights winked on as he strolled past the executive parking lot and then the visitors’ lot, heading for his office.

  Building B would be stirring back to life soon. Filming hadn’t gone well that day. The morning had been a total fiasco, and even after Melanie had had some lunch and calmed down, John wasn’t satisfied with what he’d gotten on film. They couldn’t kill another day on this one stupid scene, so Rafael had told them to break for supper and resume filming tonight.

  He himself had work to do, too. Martin Robles’s new script, Rampage, had potential but it needed major revisions. Rafael wanted to read it one more time before he decided whether to fix it himself or let Martin have another go at it. Unlike the big studios, where script doctors were paid millions of dollars to fiddle with a few lines here and there, at Aztec Sun Rafael himself was the script doctor. If a screenplay could be repaired easily and quickly, he did it. If not, he sent it back to the writer. He’d already paid the option money. The writer could take care of his bills with that until the script was in green-light shape.

  Maybe, if he finished reviewing Martin’s script early enough, he’d stop by Building B and see how things were going on the White Angel set. Melanie’s mood swings worried him. So did Diego’s apparent inability to keep the damned woman in line. As long as she wasn’t doing drugs, Rafael wouldn’t see his studio get dragged into the gutter from a scandal. But her cold-turkey jitters were almost as troublesome as drug use would have been.

  Almost. But Rafael could weather anything, even an actress freaking out from the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal, as long as she wasn’t actually using the junk.

  Why had Sandra asked him about drugs? Had she heard the rumors about Melanie’s past indulgences? Or was she simply firing questions into the dark and hoping luck would steer them to a target?

  She didn’t strike him as the sort to leave professional matters to chance. She wouldn’t fire blindly. She had to know something.

  But what exactly did she know? And how did she know it?

  And how—short of kissing her again—could he lead her to a different story?

  Of course, he realized with sudden insight. Sandra needed a story. If Rafael provided her with a good one, she would be satisfied. He had to stop antagonizing her and give her something she could use. If he did, she would earn her byline and disappear.

  That was the way he’d handle her: he’d include her in the filming, show her how exciting making a movie could be. He would never be able to outdo Diego in charm, but he’d give Sandra the opportunity to write a story that wouldn’t do him or Aztec Sun any harm.

  He didn’t want to. He didn’t even want to see her again. He didn’t want to think about the warmth and depth of her eyes, the velvet texture of her skin, the way her hair had sifted through his fingers, black and fluid like the wind at night. He didn’t want to think of the way her mouth had felt beneath his, the way her tongue had lured his, the way her breath had merged with his and her heart had pounded against his chest.

  He didn’t want anything to do with her at all.

  But for the sake of his studio, he’d give her a good story.

  ***

  AN HOUR LATER, HE’D WOLFED DOWN A SANDWICH, finished skimming Martin Robles’s script, jotted some notes, and locked up his office. The executive lot was nearly empty when he left the building, but he spotted Diego’s fancy Mercedes parked a few spaces away from his T-bird. Sandra’s sedan was parked in the visitors’ lot.

  At the sight of her car, he was assailed by a mixture of apprehension and delight. Apprehension that the woman had returned to his studio to lurk, to snoop, to pry open locked doors and dissect his secrets.

  Delight that he would see her again.

  Tonto, he chasti
sed himself. Stupid. Seeing Sandra Garcia again would be useful only if he could feed her a story so meaty she’d be willing to leave the rest alone. Delight had nothing to do with it.

  Except that he’d kissed her—in anger, in frustration, in downright rage, but when he remembered the lush softness of her lips against his, all he felt was delight.

  The woman was going to make him crazy, if she hadn’t already.

  He hoped she was with Diego, at least. He hoped she was totally unhinged by their kiss, if not by his threats. If she was, she wouldn’t be asking anyone irksome questions about Rafael’s family. She would be sitting next to Diego, subdued and docile, writing whatever Diego told her about how Aztec Sun went about making profitable movies.

  He entered Building B. The light above the door to the main sound stage was glowing red, indicating that filming was in progress. He impatiently waited until the bulb went dark, then opened the door and stepped inside.

  On the set, Melanie and Antonio Torres were being ministered to by the make-up and hair people. Larry Seldes was marking the slate for another take; Jenny was rearranging props for continuity according to the notes on her clipboard; Bob Jorgensen was doing a sound check; Gina was wandering among the technicians with a tray of coffee in paper cups. Rafael knew everyone in the room.

  Picking his way around the cables and scaffolding, he glanced toward the window separating the set from the tech booth. He knew everyone there, too: Luis, Diego and Sandra.

  Although he was shrouded in the shadows, she spotted him. He saw her straighten her spine and lift her chin. Her eyes glinted with indignation, resentment, and something more, something that made him feel his own passion rise up and devour what little control he had over his baser urges.

  He wanted her. He wanted her in his arms again, in the tech booth, in the alley behind Cesar’s, in his bed. He wanted her lips on his, her tongue dueling with his and losing. He wanted her hair spread across his pillow, or raining down on him as she rose above him. He wanted her long, slender legs wrapped around his waist, her breasts filling his hands, his mouth. He wanted...

  Control.

  He turned away from the tech booth window as if he had no interest in her, and walked over to the edge of the kitchen set, where John Rhee was conferring with one of the cameramen. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  John’s baseball cap was on sideways, the visor covering one ear and making him look like a drunk teenager instead of a rookie director. The grin he gave Rafael made him look even younger. “The lady’s lucky,” he replied. “I’m not going to have to flog her this time. She gets to live another day.”

  “Then we’re all lucky,” Rafael said, patting John on the shoulder. “You’re tougher than she is, John. You can make this thing work.”

  “I want to renegotiate for hardship pay,” John warned, then laughed to show he was joking.

  Rafael took a deep breath and pivoted back toward the tech booth. Sandra was watching him. He felt her gaze through the thick, soundproof glass, through the air, through his skin. He felt it burning a hole in his gut.

  He was going to behave nicely with her. He was going to demonstrate that he could work with her if she didn’t sneak around behind his back. He was going to make sure she didn’t stray beyond what was safe.

  He was going to stay in control of her and her story, the way he stayed in control of his studio, of his life. Out-of-control was too dangerous. He couldn’t risk it again.

  Squaring his shoulders, he sauntered across the room to the tech booth and swung open the door. Luis smiled and nodded a greeting without removing his headset.

  Diego grinned and said, “Hey, man, you decided to pay a call on the little people?”

  Sandra said nothing. She simply gazed at him.

  Control, he exhorted himself. “I thought I’d drop by and see if things were going smoothly,” he said.

  “Smooth as silk,” Diego reported.

  Rafael dragged a folding metal chair over to the window and placed it next to Sandra. He was determined to prove to her—and himself—that he could sit beside her without losing control. “Do you like watching the shoot?” he asked in an amiable tone.

  “Yes. It’s interesting.” Was it his imagination, or did she sound slightly breathless?

  Suppressing a smile, he studied her in the bright light of the booth. She had put on her blazer, which hid from his view her strong tan arms, the arms he’d caressed, the arms he still ached to feel around him. Silently he thanked her for donning the jacket.

  He stretched out his legs and observed through the window as John’s assistant director set up the next take. As intently as he tried to focus on the activity on the opposite side of the glass, he never lost his awareness of Sandra. He might not be able to see her graceful arms, but his peripheral vision caught her profile: her delicately etched cheekbone, her straight nose, her coal-black hair. A gold hoop earring glinted provocatively through the glossy locks.

  He wanted to nibble her ear. Her lips. Her breasts.

  “I’m meeting Sloan Palmer for breakfast tomorrow,” he told Diego, so casually Sandra shot him a perplexed look. “He wants to handle the Spanish-language distribution again.”

  “He did a good job with Vendetta.”

  “I know.”

  “Doubled our net. That man knows the South American market like no one else.”

  Rafael nodded. Silence settled over the booth.

  Damn. He had to say something to Sandra, something that would nudge her in the right direction. Something about the way he made movies, the way he hired local kids, the way he stood as a role model—the very phrase made him wince—for the young punks in the community. Something she could spread across the pages of the L.A. Post without doing him any damage, without mentioning the word drugs.

  The telephone next to the light board rang. Luis slid off his headset and answered. He listened, then turned to Rafael. “Someone named Serge Semyonovich wants to talk to you.”

  Rafael curled his lip. Serge Semyonovich was a professional busybody. He lived in Bel Air, wore hand-stitched leather loafers without socks, and wrote a who-was-seen-where column that people in the film industry seemed to think was important.

  Rafael met Diego’s eyes above Sandra’s head. “Yeah, sure,” Diego said with a laugh. “I’ll talk to the old boy. I’ll take it outside.” He stood, winked at Sandra, and strode out of the booth.

  Luis put his headset back on, cutting himself off from Sandra and Rafael. This was Rafael’s chance. He had to start pushing her toward a story he could live with.

  He twisted slightly in his chair, and swallowed at the sight of her shimmering brown eyes, her delicate lips. A hundred silent curses spun through his head. He wondered if she used her beauty when she was pursuing other stories—or whether she was even conscious of using her beauty at all.

  “The thing with drugs,” he said, grimacing at the abrupt sound of his voice, “is that they’re all over the industry—and all over the city. Let’s face it—this isn’t news.”

  “I know.” As brusque as he sounded, her voice was gentle. He envied her poise.

  “But with Chicanos...with anyone who isn’t Anglo... We have half as much and we have to work twice as hard, and stay twice as clean,” he explained. “And drugs—they’re a death sentence. I come from the barrio, I’ve seen what drugs can do. That’s why I have such a hard line on this.”

  “I respect that, Rafael.”

  God, she was too close. He watched the motion of her hands in her lap, her fingers long and tapered, her thighs sleek. He wished she were wearing a skirt so he could see her knees and calves and ankles. In her neatly tailored trousers he could only imagine what her legs looked like, and his imagination was on fire.

  “I want the community to prosper,” he said. “Drugs destroy people.”

  “How did you grow up so strong?” she asked.

  If she’d made a move to pull out her blasted recorder, he would have believed they were back in
an interview mode. But she simply sat next to him, her hands once again folded and calm in her lap, her eyes radiant as she studied him.

  Usually he felt strong. But not now, not with her looking at him that way, with the smooth bronze skin of her throat just begging to be kissed. “My mother,” he managed to say.

  “Your mother?”

  “She raised me to be strong.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  Even without the recorder running, he realized that this was an interview. But his mother, like his sister—like his entire family—was off limits. “There’s nothing to tell,” he said curtly.

  Sandra seemed about to question him, but he was spared by the return of Diego, who bounded into the tech room, flopped onto his chair and beamed a grin at Sandra before filling Rafael in. “Serge called to inform us he saw Martin Robles dining at Spago with an executive from Carolco.”

  Rafael snorted. “I hope Martin ordered the most expensive dish on the menu.”

  “Serge thinks you ought to worry. He thinks Robles is shopping his new script around.”

  “I’ve got his new script sitting on my desk,” Rafael told him. “If he wants to shop it around, that’s his business. I’ll offer him my deal and he can take it or leave it.”

  “Don’t you feel competitive with other producers?” Sandra asked.

  Rafael shrugged. “I offer something they don’t offer. They offer something I don’t offer.”

  “Like dinner at Spago?”

  He chuckled. “I’d rather eat my mother’s cooking. Or maybe your mother’s. Did you know—” he leaned around her to address Diego “—that Sandra’s parents run a restaurant in Berkeley?”

  “No kidding! Let’s charter a plane and fly up for dinner sometime.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Sandra’s gaze shuttled between the two men flanking her. She smiled hesitantly. “It’s amazing how you two can work with each other and still remain such good friends.”