Dark Desires

by JoAnn Ross

  "I like my solitude." He slanted her a mocking look. "If you're afraid to spend the night alone in this house with me, we can call Justin and have him assure you that I'm not a serial killer, or a rapist."

  "If the electricity is out, the phone probably isn't working, either," she said.

  "Good point." He gave her a brief, savage smile. "Then I suppose you'll just have to trust me, won't you?"

  She'd just as soon trust the devil. But then she reassured herself yet again that Justin wouldn't have encouraged her to come here if Winters was even half as dangerous as he looked.

  "I suppose I will," she agreed stiffly. "And as for supper, it's very nice of you to offer, Mr. Winters, but it isn't necessary."

  "I insist. After all, we can't have you swooning from hunger your first night here, can we?"

  His words indicated that he believed that there would be more than one night. Determined to set the record straight, Savannah followed him into the room. "I'll be returning to Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon."

  "Don't be ridiculous. We won't be finished with the audition by then." Ignoring her angry intake of breath, he went around the room, lighting a variety of fragrant white beeswax candles.

  "I already know what I want to do with those scenes," she insisted. "So long as you've got a synthesizer and a computer, I should be able to give you an idea what I have in mind by noon tomorrow, at the latest."

  "I'm impressed by your forethought, Ms. Starr, but that still won't be enough time. Wait here. I'll be right back."

  He left the room, returning momentarily with a thick terry-cloth robe that he tossed onto the bed. The robe, which Savannah assumed was his, was black, adding to the impression of Blake Winters as a creature of the night. She found herself wishing she'd thought to pack a garlic necklace. Or was that for werewolves? She definitely should have paid more attention to Christopher Lee's Dracula films.

  "The bathroom's right through that door," he said. "I imagine you're in the mood for a long hot shower about now."

  A hot shower sounded heavenly. But, immersed in her exacerbation, Savannah refused to succumb to his enticing suggestion. "I hate to get into artistic differences right off the bat," she said stiffly. "But you're wrong. One day is definitely enough time to show you how I've interpreted your scenes. Talent doesn't answer to a time dock, Mr. Winters. You, of all people, should know that."

  "I wasn't referring to your talent, Ms. Starr," he returned smoothly. "I realized the first time I heard your work that you're incredibly gifted."

  "So, why am I here?"

  Blake's answer was short and sweet. It was also the last thing Savannah expected to hear. "So I can discover whether or not I can work with you without taking you to bed."

  With that, he was gone, leaving her to sink down onto the soft feather mattress and stare after him.

  Blake sipped thoughtfully on his drink as he heated the hearty minestrone and sliced last night's roast into thick sandwiches. In the background, the portable kitchen radio was tuned to a San Francisco blues station.

  The lady definitely wasn't a pushover. And although he was not accustomed to people questioning his authority, Blake couldn't help but admire her spunk. Most women of his acquaintance, after trudging through rain and mud, would have burst into tears if met with the same unwelcoming attitude with which he'd greeted her.

  He knew that if she reported his behavior back to Justin, his longtime friend and agent would probably feel obliged to deck him, just on principle. But something told him that Savannah would keep their little altercation to herself; she was definitely a woman willing to fight her own battles. Which proved how deceptive appearances could be.

  He was slicing tomatoes for a salad, remembering how deceptively vulnerable she'd looked, standing on his front porch, dripping wet, when her soft voice broke into his thoughts.

  "Did you actually mean what you said? About us going to bed?"

  She was engulfed in folds of black terry cloth. Her hair, though combed, hung in wet tangles over her shoulders; beads of water gleamed on her ivory skin, revealed by the robe's neckline. The plastic surgeons had done a remarkable job on her still-exquisite face. Although it might have been a trick of the softly flattering light from the candle she carried, Blake couldn't see any scars. Her feet were bare, the polish on her toe-nails gleaming like pink seashells. Desire hit him hard.

  Forcing it down with a frown, Blake returned to slicing the tomatoes. "If we end up working together, you'll discover that I never say anything I don't mean."

  "Mr. Winters—"

  "It's Blake."

  Determined to get control of the situation, Savannah ignored his murmured suggestion. "Mr. Winters," she said forcefully, "I cannot believe that you are so desperate for a woman that you'd bring me all the way up here to seduce me." The cat, which had remained with her while she showered and dressed, wove figure eights between her ankles, purring thickly.

  He glanced up at her with polite curiosity. "Do you feel in danger of being seduced?"

  Thinking that he'd been barely civil since her arrival, Savannah was forced to answer honestly: "Hardly."

  He shrugged. "Then I suggest you not worry. When and if I decide to seduce you, Savannah," he said, his eyes lifting to hers, holding her unwilling gaze by the sheer strength of his will, "believe me, you'll know."

  Savannah shook her head. "You're a very strange man," she murmured, watching with fascination at the skill in which he wielded the razor-sharp knife.

  "So I've been told. How was your shower?" he asked. "Did you have enough hot water?"

  "You can't change the subject just like that," she complained.

  "Of course I can. You know, I'm surprised you found your way down here by yourself. The house has a lot of twists and turns."

  Savannah's frustrated sigh ruffled her bangs. Obviously Winters was determined to control the conversation. Recognizing tenacity when she saw it, Savannah decided not to respond to his obvious attempts to initiate an argument. She'd be as polite and agreeable as possible. Tomorrow morning, she'd play him the score that had been haunting her mind for hours, and then be on her way. Back to Malibu. To her own home. And her own life.

  "I got lost twice," she admitted. "Finally I decided to follow your cat. If it wasn't for him, I probably would have spent the rest of my life wandering these halls like some ancient ghost."

  "You should have stayed where you were. I intended to bring dinner up to you."

  "Actually, it was rather exciting," she said with a faint smile. "I felt like a character in one of those old horror movies. I almost expected to disappear behind a sliding panel."

  "It's been known to happen," Blake agreed. He didn't know why Savannah was suddenly being so cheerful, but he had a feeling that if he waited long enough, he'd find out what she was up to. "There was a guy up here six months ago trying to sell me aluminium siding. He went into the library to write up his quote and I haven't seen him since."

  Savannah thought she saw a glimmer of a smile in his eyes, but decided that it had to be a trick of the candlelight. "Can I help?"

  "I have everything under control."

  Which was just the way he liked things, Savannah mused. Biting down on her building frustration, she tried another track. "If the rest of the scenes of your movie are half as good as the ones you've sent me, you've got yourself a hit," she said conversationally, watching him chop fragrant green leaves of fresh basil with quick, sure strokes.

  "House rules—no business talk with meals. It leads to indigestion and ruins the efforts of the cook." He waved the knife in the direction of the refrigerator. "If you really want to help, you'll find some wine in there. How are you with a corkscrew?"

  Savannah was frustrated by his refusal to discuss his work, but, not wanting to rock what appeared to be a dangerously precarious boat, she padded over to the refrigerator and located the wine.

  "I'm surprised at how warm it is in here." She'd been worried about not having any dry shoes to put
on after her shower, but the floor had proved remarkably warm.

  "The house is built on an underground hot spring," Blake divulged. "When the first owner built the house, back at the turn of the century, he put in a steam boiler."

  He sprinkled the chopped basil over the tomato slices. "When I bought the place, the realtor warned that I'd have to dig a new well and put in a modern heating system, but so far, that old boiler just keeps kicking out the heat."

  "Lucky," Savannah said. She watched him work with a smooth, precise, patient skill that she couldn't help but admire. Patience had never been her strong suit, and although she'd tried on several occasions to learn to cook, inevitably her mind would drift during some crucial stage and she'd end, at best, with a ruined meal; at worst, with a kitchen filled with smoke and firemen.

  "I thought so." Blake drizzled a honey-mustard vinaigrette over the tomatoes.

  "Actually," Savannah admitted, "when I first arrived, I thought this place was pretty spooky." She glanced around the rustic kitchen, taking in the copper pots and the lush green plants. "But the candlelight is rather nice."

  Here it was—the seductive, let's-get-to-know-each-other pitch. Then later, when she'd softened him up sufficiently, it would be time for her to suggest that she was the only person who understood him enough to appreciate his work. As sexy as Savannah admittedly was, Blake was disappointed to discover that she was no different from so many other women of his acquaintance. Pamela included. Especially Pamela.

  He put the salads on the table, along with a platter of sandwiches and the tureen of thick minestrone. "Most women would probably consider candlelight romantic, I suppose."

  Savannah looked up from pouring the wine, puzzled by his suddenly gritty tone. For a few minutes, she'd begun to believe that they'd simply gotten off to a bad start; that if they both tried, they might be able to get along.

  "I said 'nice,'" she reminded him quietly. "Not romantic."

  "Whatever."

  He held the chair out for her. Savannah hesitated, men sat down, wondering if he was going to continue to glower at her all through dinner.

  3

  Fortunately, whatever had been bothering Blake seemed to pass, allowing them to eat in reasonably companionable silence, enjoying the bluesy tones of Marvin Gaye in the background.

  Savannah found the minestrone delicious and was less surprised than she might have been when he revealed that he'd made it himself last week. The sandwiches were thick, piled high with roast beef and Swiss cheese on sourdough bread. The light vinaigrette dressing on the tomatoes was expertly seasoned. Was there anything this man couldn't do? Savannah wondered.

  Later, when he suggested having their brandy upstairs in his den, she felt too satiated and at ease to recognize the trap.

  "Oh! It's wonderful," she exclaimed as he led her into the octagonal tower room.

  A bank of undraped ceiling-high windows allowed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the storm that continued to rage outside, splitting the night sky with brilliant, jagged lightning. Drawn by the magnificent scene, Savannah walked over to the windows. From way, way down below, she could hear the distant sound of the surf crashing against the granite cliffs.

  Blake watched the enchantment shining in her eyes and wondered if she was acting. The first time Pamela had set foot in this room, she had complained that it reminded her of the torture chamber in a horror movie. That said, she'd refused ever to put her dainty little size-four feet across the doorway again.

  "How odd," Savannah said. "I usually hate storms." She was standing in front of the bank of windows, looking out over the storm-tossed sea. "But up here, it's different." Thunder boomed. Lighting flashed like a thousand strobe lights, bathing the room in blinding white light. "It's thrilling." She tossed Blake a dazzling smile over her shoulder. "I feel like Thor."

  The excitement in her eyes caused a rush of arousal to surge, unwanted, through his system. "This room is the reason I bought the house."

  "I can see why."

  Sighing appreciatively, Savannah left the windows, sank onto the soft black leather couch and put her bare feet up on the granite table. The cat settled on the Oriental rug in front of the fire and began washing its paws. The crackling fire in the stone fireplace gave off a warm glow, along with a pungent scent of cedar.

  "I envy you. Living here would be like being in the middle of a fairy tale. I can almost see Rapunzel lowering her hair to her prince."

  When her smile warmed him to the core, Blake decided that while Savannah's seduction methods might be a great deal less sophisticated than Pamela's had been, they were no less fatal.

  In the beginning, Pamela had called him her Prince Charming. Like a fool, he'd tried like hell to live up to the role. In the beginning, anyway.…

  "I've never been a fan of fairy tales."

  His dark eyes iced over, reminding Savannah that cold could be every bit as dangerous as heat. "Actually," she said, "neither have I. My father used to read me the Brothers Grimm when I was a little girl. It always seemed that the princesses had long, flowing blond locks, while the ugly witches all had black hair. I hated that."

  Melanie Raine had been famous for her long platinum waves. Blake wondered idly if Savannah had felt the need to compete with her ultraglamorous mother.

  "Snow White was a brunette," he pointed out.

  "Do you know, all those years, I never once thought of Snow White," Savannah admitted. "Where were you when I was six years old?"

  Her soft laugh reminded Blake of crystal wind-chimes in a soft summer breeze. His unwilling response to that laugh annoyed him. "Not hanging around Beverly Hills, that's for damn sure."

  Savannah thought she detected sarcasm in his tone. "Don't tell me that a man whose last picture grossed twenty million dollars in the opening weekend, actually resents those of us who happened to have been born rich?"

  "Of course not," he said, not quite truthfully. So she was perceptive, as well as being talented and beautiful. Blake found the combination vaguely threatening. Frowning, he poured some Courvoisier into a pair of snifters and handed one to her.

  "To a successful collaboration."

  She looked up at him, puzzled. "I didn't think that was settled yet."

  Sitting down beside her, he gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his shuttered eyes. "I didn't want to give you the job until I proved to myself that I could resist sleeping with you." Ignoring Savannah's furious gasp, he sipped his cognac thoughtfully. "But over dinner I decided that I was being ridiculous."

  Savannah didn't bother to hide her relief. "I'm so glad you came to that decision," she said. "Because I really want to score your film."

  "I know."

  Placing his glass slowly, deliberately; on the coffee table, he turned toward her. Her mouth, curved in a smile, looked very soft and very tempting. For countless hours over these past nights, Savannah's image and his own vivid imagination had tormented him relentlessly.

  Although he'd fought against it, the arousal he'd been feeling since first screening her film and listening to her sultry, seductive score, returned to taunt him yet again. This time Blake decided to satisfy it.

  His hand slipped under her drying hair and cupped her neck. "I vowed that I wasn't going to fall victim to your seductive spell."

  Blake's eyes didn't waver from hers as he slowly traced the shape of her mouth with his thumb. When her lips trembled apart, he lowered his head, his intent obvious.

  "But then when you showed up in my kitchen, looking like some delectable mermaid who'd washed up on my shore, I decided, what the hell."

  Savannah couldn't think, much less move or speak. Before she could dredge up a single word of protest, his lips covered hers in a slow, drugging kiss that sent her head spinning. Her fingers tightened on her glass; the breath she'd been unaware of holding shuddered out. His clever tongue softly teased its way between her lips, feathering against hers in a way that made her go numb from the knees down.

  There wa
s no artifice in her kiss, no clever expertise. As her arms crept around his neck and she pressed her slender body against his, Blake could feel the aching need in her—or was it his own need? Even as he tried to remind himself that as an actress, Savannah Starr was more than capable of feigning both innocence and passion, a rebellious part of his mind pointed out that there was something unique in the way her mouth fit his. And somehow he knew that if he took her now, it wouldn't be easy to walk away.

  Part of Savannah's brain realized that she was suddenly completely vulnerable, that she should resist the spell he was spinning around them. But her mind was becoming wrapped in a velvet fog; her blood warmed, her pulse hummed. As impossible as it sounded, she was floating. How could that be? As he deepened the kiss, degree by aching degree, coherent thought disintegrated. She sighed—a whisper of sound against his mouth.

  It was taking every, ounce of Blake's willpower not to rip off the bulky robe and bury himself in her warm, welcoming heat. Passion raged in him. He felt an almost-savage urge to plunder; he wanted to devour Savannah Starr almost as much as he wanted to savor her.

  "Dammit. You win, mermaid," he growled against her throat. "The job's all yours."

  His grim words were like a splash of ice water on her swirling senses. Pushing against his shoulders, Savannah broke away. "I can't believe you think…"

  Savannah took a deep breath, dragging both hands through her hair as she tried to articulate her outrage. She knew that she would always—for as long as she lived—hate herself for succumbing to that stolen moment of golden pleasure.

  Plying her talent for all it was worth, she tossed her head and gave him a cool, withering look. "For your information, Mr. Winters, the casting couch went out with twenty-five-cent popcorn, newsreels and double features."

  Blake's implacable gaze drifted to her unfettered breasts, heaving beneath the terry cloth. The Lady Astor routine was an act, he determined. But her temper was honest, even if he was at a loss to understand why she was so angry.