by Brenda Joyce
She looked at him.
All self-derision vanished She knew how to look at a man. Gazes riveted, locked. His body increased its throbbing awareness, and he was sorry he hadn’t left on his shirt. He was half hard and growing. He made an easy gesture. “There’s some dialogue I want to discuss.”
Belinda moved into the RV, her gaze taking in the script on the table, aware of Jack close behind her, aware that he’d shut the door. “Is there something you have a problem with?” She turned to face him.
His eyes blazed. “You might say that.”
Belinda lifted her chin. She knew what was coming—and it had nothing to do with the script. But she could play the game—his game. From under her arm she pulled out her own script and once again became aware of the sexual connotations they’d attached to it. She stared at it and thought about Jack—naked and huge and aroused, standing over her. Don’t fantasize now, she told herself, breathless and tight, and she lifted her eyes to his.
He was staring at the rolled-up script in her hand, and again his gaze met hers. Belinda knew, without a doubt, that his mind was on the same track as hers. “You have a problem with some dialogue?” Too husky.
“Yes, you could say that,” Jack said, his slight smile sarcastic.
Belinda opened the script “What page?”
It was an explosion. He grabbed it from her hand. “You know damn well it’s not on any page in there—although you’re the one who wrote it!”
“I’m tired of your yanking the damn manuscript out of my hand—”
Jack threw the screenplay on the couch. “You knew who I was at the North-Star party!”
“All right, yes!”
“You lied. You were playing some kind of game with me, and you lied!”
“No, I didn’t lie—”
“Just what would you call pretending that you didn’t know who I was?”
“Why the hell is it so damn important whether I knew or not?”
“Because you’re playing a game!”
“You don’t like games?”
He tensed, then smiled suddenly. He abruptly closed his hands on her shoulders, tightly, ruthlessly. Belinda tensed, her blood pounding. She knew she couldn’t move free of him unless he let her. His smile was not pleasant. He had pulled her closer—so close that their bodies almost touched. “Oh, I like games, all right,” he said softly. “You want to play games?” His breath was warm.
“I’m not playing a game,” Belinda managed.
“Good—then neither am I.” It was one little movement, a slight pull but with iron strength, and she was there. Against him, touching him from her knees to her breasts.
Hot, hot currents raced between them. Her jeans had never been so tight, and she could feel the heat of him, huge and aroused now, against her own plump, swollen groin.
“Why did you pretend you didn’t know who I was?” he asked huskily.
“I didn’t want to stroke your ego.”
She felt his anger as his hold tightened; she was pressed more solidly against him. “How in hell would you know anything about my ego?”
“We all have egos,” she managed.
When he spoke next his voice was a sensual rasping, meant to caress, seduce. “I want to stroke your ego, Belinda.”
She forced her gaze from his mouth to his eyes. The tightening in her chest was instantaneous. “Jack!” Protest or plea? She didn’t know.
“Let me stroke your ego,” he said, his hands sliding down her arms. His large palms cradled her buttocks, holding her tightly against his swollen penis. “I want you, Belinda … I want to make love to you, want to worship every inch of you … in bed, baby, that’s where I’m going to stroke your ego, stroke it … fuck it …”
On fire. She closed her eyes, pressing her hips hard against his. His hands tightened on her buttocks, lifting her closer. She was clinging to him. He was grinding against her. She was going to have an orgasm soon, any second. “Touch me,” she demanded.
He reached down and grabbed her between her legs. Belinda gasped. His mouth covered hers, hot, urgent. His hold on her crotch tightened. Belinda cried out.
The door opened and shut. “Jack?” Melody said. “Oh!”
45
Mary felt sexy.
She felt exquisite.
Sated.
Revenge.
She sat propped up in Abe’s huge bed, not bothering to pull the covers over her bare breasts, one calf and foot also exposed. She heard him in the bathroom. God, who would have thought? It was the first time she had come with a man—and what a man. He’d made love to her for hours last night; so it was true—old guys could really hold it. And this morning … She smiled.
“I’m running late,” Abe said, coming out of the bathroom in his trousers, buttoning his shirt. “Because of you, doll.” He grinned.
She smiled back.
“You can stay as long as you like,” he said, reaching for cuff links. “Damn, I wish I didn’t have to go back to New York tonight. Wish I could bring you.”
“When will you be back?” Mary asked innocently.
“Want more, huh?” He was obviously pleased, and he came close to fondle her breasts. He rolled a hard nipple with his fingers, watching her face.
The stabbing of desire was incredible.
“I want to see you the next time I’m in town. Give me your phone number.”
Mary was quick to comply. She wanted to see him again—God, she did.
“You’ve got the best knockers I’ve ever seen,” he said, reluctantly pulling away.
“Abe, wait.”
He shrugged into his jacket.
“What about Belinda?”
“Leave her to me,” he said, flashing a white smile. He winked and left.
Revenge.
Sex.
Abe Glassman.
God, she felt good.
46
Yesterday all he could thing about was Belinda.
Today all he could think about was Mary.
Where the hell had she been last night?
He was going to kill her.
He had called Beth at two in the morning. Beth had no idea where she was and was instantly frightened, thinking Mary had been in an accident. Vince had pumped the information out of her. Mary had gone into L.A. yesterday to see Abe Glassman. Vince was horrified at the thought. She was mad, totally mad! Just what in hell did she think she was doing?
Beth said Mary was going to get Abe to break them up.
Vince was furious. No one would keep him away from the woman he loved, not even Abe Glassman. After all, what could he do?
And he was really going to kill Mary.
Unlike Beth, he was almost positive Mary hadn’t been in an accident. She had probably closed down a bar somewhere and passed out. But if she had passed out after fooling around with some guy, he was going to kill her.
Red-hot jealousy.
He didn’t analyze it—it was too potent. Too overwhelming.
Today he had actually hit his thumb with a hammer. That would be funny if the circumstances were different. He had rushed home—as fast as five-mile-an-hour traffic would allow. And she wasn’t there.
He paced. He cursed. He put his fist through the wall. That hurt, but he didn’t care.
And then he had heard her Beetle.
He met her at the door. “Where the fuck have you been?”
She was carrying groceries—groceries—and she smiled. “Shopping. I’m starved.”
He grabbed the bag out of her arms and threw it on the couch. “Where were you last night, Mary?” It was a roar.
“None of your fucking business, Vince,” she said sweetly.
He clenched his fists so he wouldn’t hit her, although he felt he was truly provoked and the right was his. She gathered up the groceries, carried them into the kitchen.
“I want to know where you were last night,” Vince demanded, following her.
She turned to him. “Why do you care—lover boy?
You have Miss Rich-Ass.”
“You’re my wife,” he said, and it made perfect sense to him.
“And you’re my husband,” she said, tossing her mane of brown hair.
He grabbed her and she winced. “Did you sleep with somebody last night? Did you?” He was seeing red. He had never been this angry, not ever, but he had never had a wife before who might have cheated on him—openly.
“No,” she said quickly. “I love you, Vince, and I’m going to be here for you when that bitch dumps you. You’ll see.”
There was something in her eyes and a glow on her face that made him unsure whether to believe her. His hands went from her shoulders to her face, cupping it hard. He kissed her. Hard, hurtfully, angrily. One arm went around her waist, like a clamp; his other hand found her breasts, grabbing crudely. She kissed him back.
He pushed her onto the floor of the kitchen, yanking at the snap of her jeans. Her face was white with … surprise? … fear? He didn’t care. She was his, and he half knew she was lying—she had fucked around. But he was throbbing and hard and ready to assert his power over her. He pulled her jeans off, kneeing her legs apart.
“Vince!” she cried.
He grabbed her buttocks and thrust in hard.
It was animal rutting, and he came very quickly.
Afterward Mary got up and calmly began to make dinner.
47
The shower was hot, too hot, a welcome relief for her tired body.
Thank God, she thought, turning off the faucets. Thank God that redhead had interrupted them when she had.
Belinda began toweling herself vigorously. She now knew that the woman was Ford’s manager and personal assistant (did everyone in Hollywood have an assistant?). The fact that she wasn’t his girlfriend and latest lay pleased her. A lot. Although any idiot could see that Melody had very protective, possessive, and jealous instincts for her boss. Ford probably needed that kind of attention constantly, she decided.
His ego probably needed it.
“Just what do you know about my ego?” His words echoed.
Belinda smiled, slipping on silk Natori shorts and a matching tank, both black and trimmed with white lace. “I know your ego, buddy,” she told her reflection, visualizing Ford in her place. “And I know you.”
She had almost made a serious mistake. Serious, as in fatal Sleeping with Ford on the set, when he had the power to make or break her? What was she, crazy? Look at the power he’d already exercised over her—ordering her to his RV to “discuss some dialogue.” He’d ordered her over there so he could get into her pants—Belinda had no doubt about that.
Just as she had no doubt that if she wanted to stay on this shoot, she had better stay away from Ford.
As far away as possible.
No matter how magnetic the man was.
For you and a million other women, she said to herself, combing her wet hair. Including your mother.
Well, she only had thirteen days left to make it through, until they broke for the Christmas holidays, and when they reconvened, it would be without the star. Perversely she couldn’t imagine the set without him there, intense and silent, watching everything and everybody (except her), supremely autocratic. There were long stretches where he never said a word, and then suddenly, wham! The ax would fall. The lighting was wrong. The camera angles were wrong. The marks were wrong. So-and-so should move left, not right. When the King spoke, everyone shut up and listened. Then Mascione made the changes.
In all fairness, Belinda had to admit he’d played autocrat only twice today—and it did sound as if he knew what he was talking about. Still, it was obvious that everyone around here kissed his ass, including Mascione. Everyone except stupid her.
He hadn’t looked at her once since the interlude in his RV. Grudgingly Belinda had to admit it annoyed her, yet it impressed her as well. Her own ego wanted his attention, while her professional self had to admire his own professionalism.
There was a knock on her door, room service, of course. Perfect timing, because she was ravenous. Belinda slipped on a matching wrapper, barely belting it as she went to the door. She opened the door with a smile, then froze.
Jack Ford smiled back. “Expecting me?”
For an instant she didn’t move. His warm gaze slid over her languidly, confidently. Her toes curled into the rug. “I believe you have the wrong room,” she said tersely, then wanted to bite her tongue. This was one time in her life when she should not be a Mack truck!
“No,” he said just as tersely. “I have the right room.”
Her eyes widened as, with incredible presumption, he moved past her and into her bedroom. “Oh, I see—you want to discuss some dialogue.”
He flashed her a heart-stopping grin. “The dialogue can wait. Come here, Belinda.”
His silky tone was almost irresistible. “We have a six A.M. call tomorrow,” she said, breathless.
He was staring at her breasts. “You have a beautiful body, a really beautiful body.” His gaze lifted. “We have something to finish. Come here, Belinda.”
It would be so easy … Belinda shut the door, then leaned against the wall, arms at her sides, letting him admire her chest and her legs as the robe came unbelted. His eyes were hot, devouring her right down to her toes, searching, seeking, stroking … His gaze lingered on her crotch. When he looked her in the eye again, he was smiling with promise and anticipation and the certainty that she had capitulated.
“Why me?” Belinda asked. “Why not any one of a hundred broads on this shoot?”
His smile widened. “What a foolish question,” he murmured. “Why are you asking foolish questions, Belinda? You know I wanted you the instant I saw you. Just as I know you wanted me in that same instant—and that you want me now.”
“Desire has nothing to do with this,” Belinda said, giving up her provocative posture. “I don’t want to go to bed with you. Not now. Not here, not today.”
“What a liar you are.”
“Oh, I want you physically,” she said coolly. “But I have my career to think about, and I’m not about to jeopardize it by fucking the big star. A fuck is a fuck, and in the long run it can’t compare to what I want—success.”
He was standing very still. No longer smiling. “You think,” he said, slowly, “I’ll hurt you if we sleep together?”
She realized her mistake, that he was taking this as an insult. She blushed. “It’s happened in this business.”
“Then,” he grated, “you must realize the converse is true too. Right?”
Belinda stared.
“If you don’t sleep with me …”He trailed off. His eyes were blazing with anger.
“I have to protect myself.”
“You really think I’m some egomaniacal asshole.”
“I have no idea who you are.”
“No?” His tone was hard. “Damn right you don’t! So don’t you go judging and labeling me—lady!” He was on her in two strides, but he didn’t touch her; he just towered over her, furious. “And the next time you wiggle your ass around me, I’m going to take what’s being offered. Is that clear?”
“I don’t—” she started, when there was another knock on her door. Saved!
“Like hell you don’t,” Jack spat out. “I’m only reading the lines the way you write them, baby.” He was at the door, flinging it open, barreling through.
Belinda’s heart was slamming. She didn’t turn around but fought for some equilibrium. “You can put the tray on the table.”
“What was he doing in here?”
Belinda whirled. “Adam!”
48
She really thought he was some kind of prick.
He couldn’t get over it—over her. If he were the bastard she assumed him to be, he’d force her to sleep with him with the threat that he’d have her thrown off the production if she didn’t. Never, ever, in his life had Jack coerced or had to coerce a woman into his bed. And he wasn’t about to start now.
No matter how m
uch she provoked him.
Because that was definitely what she was doing. Provoking him. As in provocative. Purposely. Jack knew it. He knew women too well not to know it. The real problem here, he decided, was that he was eating it up.
Because if he could manage not to be an attentive audience, it wouldn’t matter how often she wiggled her ass in front of him.
Jesus. She had turned him down.
First she had stood him up. Now she was turning him down.
He had a terrible, stabbing thought: Maybe she really wasn’t attracted to him. Maybe it was just a game to lead him along like some dumb, hard-up adolescent. And he was playing right into the palm of her hand.
Forget her, he told himself. Really forget her. She may be a good screenwriter, but she’s nothing but a cockteaser, and that you don’t need.
It was easier said than done. He couldn’t sleep. Her boyfriend was here, the same guy she’d been with the night they’d first met at Majoriis’s. Were they fucking right now? A very graphic fantasy assailed Jack, of her boyfriend thrusting a massive prick into her while she writhed in orgasm. He turned onto his stomach, hard now, and angry. Right now she was with that nameless nobody, when she could be with him. Not only had she turned him down, she had turned him down for someone else.
This was unfuckingbelievable.
“Adam, you have no right to grill me.”
“Have you slept with him?”
“Am I an idiot? I want to stay as far away from him as possible!” She meant it. The truth must have sounded in her voice, because Adam relaxed and took her hand. They were sitting on the bed.
“I’m sorry, Belinda. It was just a shock to see him leaving—with you dressed like this.”
“It was a shock when he appeared here too.” She looked at Adam, but she was trying not to worry about Ford’s warning that he could hurt her for not sleeping with him. How come she hadn’t thought of that herself? And now what was she going to do? Would he apply the screws? “Just as your appearance here was a shock—is a shock.”
He smiled, drawing her hand against his chest. “Don’t be upset. I missed you.”