by Nancy Bush
“I’m not in your life. We’re just talking here.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have time. I’m working on a new career.”
“Right.”
“You were the one who told me I couldn’t get an audition even if I slept with every male—would that be straight and gay alike?—in Hollywood.”
“Not exactly verbatim, but close enough.”
“So I’ve given up acting in favor of writing.”
“Y’know, you’re damn good. I never really appreciated how good, but this is really entertaining.” He leaned his shoulder against the door jamb, blue eyes lazily focusing somewhere near her mouth. “But it’s not going to get you an audition.”
Of course, that had all changed with tonight’s revelation that he should have cast her in Borrowed Time. What a reversal.
What was happening?
She’d chosen to ignore him before. It had been easy. He could dangle the carrot of an audition in front of her nose until the second coming; it had no effect on her.
But she sure as hell wasn’t going to actually do one.
Even when he wasn’t provoking her, however, he’d bugged her. He seemed so male and imposing. Just being around him made her itchy and uncomfortable and it wasn’t just because he thought she was Denise—though that definitely had its place. It was something else, something she didn’t want to identify.
Better to concentrate on her impersonation. He couldn’t prove she wasn’t Denise. Why should he? He didn’t know she, Dinah, even existed, and let’s face it, playing Denise was really pretty easy. Her twin was so mercurial, insecure, and needy that all Dinah had to do was pretend to call Leo, her agent, and whine, whine, whine.
Nothing convinced John Callahan faster, and was a quicker turnoff, than to believe she only wanted to be with him to score a part. And for John Callahan, producer and egomaniac, it was all too easy to believe.
So she could be Dinah ninety-nine percent of the time and still get away with it.
Except that he’d made noise this evening about offering her a part.
“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked suddenly, grimacing a bit.
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t.” This was really dangerous ground.
“What’s with this obstinate thing you’ve got going? Just have a conversation with me, okay?”
“What do you want?” Dinah demanded. “I don’t owe you anything.”
“We’re cohabitating. We’ve been cruel to each other. I’d like it to just . . . end.”
He bit off the words with frustration. His eyes bored into hers. Dinah wanted to shrink beneath their power. Denise would, she was certain. But she couldn’t. She just couldn’t.
“We met on the set of Willful,” Dinah said slowly. She’d read it in the tabloids.
“But do you remember it?”
“What are you getting at?”
His gaze traveled down her neckline to where her breasts jutted against the silk robe. Dinah’s body tingled under that frank, male assessment.
“I remember that kimono,” he said in a low voice.
Now when he looked at her, she saw it. Desire. She’d seen it before. Not when men glanced at her. Lord, no. But when they looked at Denise they sometimes wore that expression.
And it mirrored her own feelings too well because it was mixed with other emotions. Regret. Anger. Frustration. John Callahan didn’t like being attracted to her any more than she liked being attracted to him.
Dangerous thoughts swirled inside Dinah’s brain. Thoughts she’d never allowed. Her experiences with sex had been tepid at best. Good old Glen wasn’t exactly the most accomplished or creative lover. A quick hump in the black of night. A slap on the rear when she was washing dishes. Oh, yes, he really knew how to woo a woman.
She’d known there was something missing but she hadn’t really known what.
But the liquid, melting hot sensations sliding through her were warning signs. It would be delicious. Forbidden. Utterly out of her experience, and she suddenly wanted it so badly, her whole being seemed concentrated on that one, searing thought.
I want to make love to you, his flaming eyes and grim expression said.
God knew what her own face revealed.
She watched him rise from the table, his gaze locked to hers. It could be a script, she thought half-hysterically, the slow-motion movements choreographed so stereotypically as to cause a rewrite. Her own hypnotic hesitation too corny to be believed.
She shrank against the counter. His nearness overpowered her. Concentrating on those crisp chest hairs, she tried to block everything about him from her mind.
Then his hand cupped her chin. Warm and dry and possessive. He tilted her face upward until she was helpless but to meet that powerful gaze.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice husky and confused.
Dinah was powerless to answer. From a long, long distance away she watched his lips descend to meet hers.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered the moment before his mouth touched against hers, at first tentatively, then with more urgency.
And then his body followed, pressing her backward until every male contour and angle seemed seared to her flesh. Dinah felt faint. She couldn’t take it in. Too many sensations. Too much.
And then she thought of Thomas Daniels. How he’d pushed her down on the bed. How his hot tongue had fought its way inside her mouth. How she’d flailed around for a weapon, connected with one of Denise’s high heels and slammed him in the temple with the heel.
He’d never touched her again.
But this was different. Oh, so seductively different. His tongue was hot and slick and exciting and her mouth welcomed its invasion.
Was that her voice? Those frail, anxious gasps? She could feel his hardness pressed urgently against her thigh. She wanted him to grind against her even while the thought scared her. Too primal. Too intense. This wasn’t her. Not Dinah Scott. She was the smart one. The cool one. The one who cleaned up messes and took care of everything.
No, no, no!
His hand slipped down her back, circled to the front, squeezed her breast through the flowered silk kimono. She wanted to wrap her legs around him. She actually picked up one trembling limb and his fingers instantly came to help.
Then she was on the counter, lifted there by knowing, anxious hands. And the grinding she’d silently begged for started in small thrusts that rapidly slammed out of control, and suddenly she was clawing at him, gasping for air, and he was ready, willing, and able.
Her robe fell open. Panties slipped off expertly. Thighs pressed together. His hardness sliding swiftly, effortlessly, deeply into her wet center.
The feeling was exquisite—and wrong. Totally wrong. Only, how could something so wrong, feel so goooood? Didn’t she write about the truth of romance? Didn’t she believe that sex and love could be one and the same?
No. She didn’t. Not really, but ohhhh God . . .
His hard, rapid breathing matched her own. Suddenly he lifted her again, still deep within her and then they were on the floor and the thrusting stopped.
“What?” she choked out.
He pressed his mouth to her neck, laughing slightly. “What’re you doing to me? I gotta slow down or it’s over too soon.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Regret was coming in a big, sweeping wave. “Oh my God!”
“Shhh,” he murmured, and then when he moved, Dinah simply ceased to exist. Another person took over and this one strained and writhed and twisted to accommodate his male body until magic happened. An explosion of pure sensation that shot feelings through her she’d never believed in before.
And when it was over, he pushed back a strand of hair from her forehead, mouth twisted into a smile of intense satisfaction, a symbol of pure, male pride and power.
“So that’s why they have fireworks in movies,” Dinah said on a catch in her breathing.
For an answer he bent his mouth
to one of her bare breasts and began a new kind of lovemaking that Dinah surrendered to completely.
She woke up with a start as dawn was creeping over the horizon. Shock ripped through her, zinging like electricity. She was in his room. In his bed. With his leg wrapped possessively around her naked body!
She’d slept with her sister’s husband.
He’s her ex, she reminded herself quickly, as if that somehow made it better. Good Lord, His Highness had simply looked at her in that sexy, penetrating way and she’d damn near lain down and spread her legs in invitation.
“Oh, God,” she groaned, squeezing her eyes closed at the horrifying image.
Her protest caused one of his arms to hug her waist. His lips moved against her hair, kissing, nuzzling. He was half-asleep but unwilling to let her go.
And she liked it.
Regrets and barely leashed desire.
So this is a morning after.
And Denise had called last night. She was sure about that. Her sister had called and then she’d gone to bed with her husband.
Shit.
And it had been so perfect!
She had to get out of here. Out of his room and out from under his spell. Glancing around, she caught sight of the picture of Denise and she fought back another groan.
His breath stirred her hair. She listened quietly. Her mind tiptoed through last night’s recent memories: a reprisal of lovemaking in this bed with its chocolate-colored sheets and musky scent. He, giving her unspeakable pleasure in unspeakable areas. She, returning in kind without turning a hair, without hesitation, with enjoyment.
She wanted to scream, seduced by images, sick at herself and her carnal enjoyment. With someone else, okay. She’d jump up and down in ecstasy and take out a billboard: DINAH SCOTT HAD AN ORGASM AND IT WAS FABU-LICIOUS!
But not with John Callahan. Not with His Highness, the King of Conquest, Chauvinism, and Casual Sex.
More nuzzling. He’d found the back of her neck and his mouth tasted, his tongue discovered. Shivers slid down her spine. Gooseflesh rose on her arm. His fingers splayed across her abdomen, slipped lower, encountering the triangle of hair before touching into her feminine sex.
He was curved around her, his hardening member pressed against her buttocks. It wouldn’t be long before his lovemaking would turn urgent and demanding. She could already feel her wetness as her body readied itself.
Pregnancy! Oh, God. Or worse!
She hadn’t used any protection.
She jerked bolt upright, shocked so deeply, she could do nothing, but whimper.
“What?” he asked, his voice husky with sleep. He lifted up on one elbow.
“Condoms,” she whispered. “We didn’t . . .”
That stopped him. He blinked several times. “Have you been tested recently?”
Her jaw dropped in indignation before she remembered who she was. “Like last week,” she snapped because she wasn’t the one who embarked in casual sex. “Don’t worry. It’s not me with the problem.”
“I haven’t slept with anyone in over a year,” he snapped right back. “And, as you well know, if I was stupid enough to have indiscriminate sex, it’d be with a condom.”
“Not last night,” she reminded him.
“You’re the one with the string of lovers. Goddammit.” He leaped out of bed and his male beauty momentarily distracted her. “You’re the one who always insisted we use a condom. What happened to that worry about having a baby? Change your mind?” A second later, he snarled, “Are you pregnant? Is that it? Some kind of trick to stick this on me, too?”
“Don’t throw this on me.” Dinah leaped to her feet as well, remembered her nakedness, and yanked one of those damned chocolate sheets off the bed, wrapping it around herself. “You made love to me. Not the other way around!”
“Oh, yeah?” He gazed at her in a way that made her blush. She wasn’t going to get into that fight.
“The good news is, that won’t happen again,” she said.
“You got that right.”
With that, he slammed into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Dinah collapsed back onto the bed, thoroughly stirred up.
At least she had the title for her next article: “What If You’re Sexually Attracted To Someone You Can’t Stand?”
The sun beat down like a hammer. Unseasonably hot. The breeze was just more hot air. Everything steamed and seared and blistered.
Denise rocked back and forth in the sliding lounge chair, drifting, drifting, slowly drifting. Her big toe gripped the concrete surrounding Lambert’s azure pool and she rocked and rocked.
Leo, that overrated shit, had not returned her calls. Oh, sure, his brain-dead receptionist assured her that he was out of town, but Denise knew better. Kissing someone else’s ass. Denise Scott was old news. Washed up. OUT.
Hazy, hazy days. All running into each other. Languidly, Denise reached for her iced grapefruit juice, her eyes encountering yesterday’s Variety. Yeah, like she cared what was going on in that world. Without a doubt she would read about the ever-popular John Callahan, superstud.
Which reminded her of Dinah.
Dinah, won’t you blow? Dinah, won’t you blow?
She warbled softly, “Dinah, won’t you blow John’s horn?”
Jealousy ran like green poison through her veins, followed by a backwash of pain so great, she actually sobbed. She was glad she had the thunder egg. It was her little piece of John. The only one she might ever possess.
The grapefruit juice was in her hand. She gazed at it, slowly lifting it to her lips. Cold liquid ran down the front of her chest, pooling in her navel.
“Shit!” she shrieked, shocked that she’d missed her mouth. Setting the glass back down on the frosted glass tabletop, she saw a series of white caplets lined up like little soldiers. Lambert’s gift. He was good at gifts.
Popping two in her mouth, she reminded herself that she didn’t do drugs. Uh-uh. No way. They weren’t for her. She was Denise Scott and she didn’t do drugs.
Time floated. Powder blue sky. Cottony clouds. Blinding, starry brilliance bouncing off the pool and into her eyes.
She felt fabulous. No need to push the poisons out, so fuck you, Dr. Hayden Stone, and the horse you rode in on. And fuck you, John Callahan. And Dinah, too!
Hours later she realized she was holding a phone in her hand, standing in the middle of Lambert’s bedroom. She wasn’t alone. Lina was making the bed.
A voice on the phone. “Denise? Denise, is that you?”
Dinah! Sounding frantic. “Dinah?”
“Where are you? I’ve been going nuts worrying about you!” Dinah fairly shrieked.
“I’m fine.” Her tongue was thick and woolly. Licking her lips, she said again, “I’m fine.”
“Are you drunk? Are you listening to me? Get a cell phone, for God’s sake. What’s your phone number there? Are you at a hotel?”
Lina’s dark eyes assessed coolly. Denise thought about flipping her off, except she remembered she liked Lina. “Do you know Lambert Wallace?”
“Hell, no.” Dinah sounded irritable.
“I’m at his place.”
“In L.A.?”
“Yeah, well, Beverly Hills. You know us movie stars.” She winked at Lina, lost her balance, and fell to the floor. A glass dish tumbled off the table, broke into pieces, one shard hitting her leg and leaving a nasty red gash. “Ooops . . .” Denise reached for the cut. Her fingers came away smeared with blood.
“Denise? Denise?”
Dinah’s voice was tinny and small. Lina bent down and replaced the phone in its cradle, cutting Dinah off in mid-protest. “You’re hurt, ma’am,” she murmured.
“I need a Band-Aid,” Denise told her.
She suddenly awakened, unaware she’d fallen asleep until she realized she was in Lambert’s bed, and she wasn’t alone.
“Who are you?” she asked thickly. Her eyes widened. “My God!” It was Dr. Stoner. Her old shrink!
No. No, it wa
sn’t. It was Lambert and something about the look on his face made her shrink inside in terror. He was going to hurt her. She braced herself for the first hit.
Hours, maybe days later she awakened again. Senses still swathed in cotton refused to register her surroundings. Dully, she listened to the labor of her own breathing.
Oh, Denise, Denise, Denise . . . what are you doing?
Dying. Killing yourself. Drowning.
With a whimper she fell back into fitful slumber.
Dinah sat on the deck and contemplated the rolling waves, dark and menacing in the midnight gloom. Bobo curled around her legs and purred, back and forth. She absentmindedly stroked the kitten’s ears, her gaze on the exterior lights strung from the eaves, which sent feeble fingers of illumination toward the ocean, adding to the sensation of darkness and mystery.
Her sister was in trouble. As bad as ever, if Dinah read the signals right and they were pretty hard to miss. Who was Lambert Wallace of Beverly Hills? She didn’t want to know. Yes, she did. She wanted to know so she could ring his doorbell, wait for the bastard to appear, then smack him right between his eyes.
God, how she hated men who treated women badly. She could sense it in the air, a telepathic message so intense she could taste its bitterness, smell its foul decay. The bastard was hurting her sister.
Not this time.
Conscience pricked up its ears. You hurt her. You hurt her big-time. You made love to her husband.
Ex-husband, she reminded herself defensively.
No good. Doesn’t count. You screwed him. You did that.
She sucked in air between her teeth. She’d made a mistake. A stupid, damn near unforgivable, and potentially fatal, mistake. Yeah, right. Like His Highness hadn’t sampled the side dishes around the set. What man wouldn’t? And she knew from Denise that John Callahan was not above adultery—although, you had to consider the source, she reminded herself with a grimace. Oh, how she’d like to believe Denise was wrong! She wanted Callahan to be better than he was.
But maybe he’s telling the truth, her naive, little-girl-self suggested. Maybe he’s one of the good guys.
“Shut up,” she told herself.