"What?"
He shook his head. "Never mind. I just need a high-lighter and some sticky notes."
Slapping the open script down on a corner of the desk, Ty reached in front of her to pull open the drawer under the work surface. Sudden alarm vaulted through her. Had she said comfort? Yeah, right. Maybe when he'd been safely across the room, but this close to him, comfort was the last word that applied.
He'd rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were tanned and strong, and those hands—she could imagine him building fine furniture, running those long fingers over exotic wood grain, polishing it until it was silky smooth.
She could imagine his hands on her skin.
Trish jolted as Ty's arm brushed against her. His mouth was close enough to kiss she thought as he leaned over her. She could smell that elusive scent of soap that hung around him. Her breath hitched.
"I thought you said you weren't jumpy," Ty said, his eyes meeting hers.
"I just wasn't expecting…" Her voice trailed off and she groped desperately for something to say.
"What?" he asked softly. She could see the gold flecks in his blue-green eyes as they focused on hers, she could almost taste his mouth. It would take so little for him to close the gap.
And she was afraid of how much she wanted him to.
The phone rang, rescuing her. Trish cleared her throat. "I'll just get that, shall I?" Her voice was brisk. "Let's see, you said if they're not on the list, take a message, right?"
Ty looked at her for a long second, then grinned and straightened. "Sure. I'll be in the kitchen if it's anyone I need to talk to."
Trish let out a breath and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" She listened to the caller for a moment. "Just give me a moment and I'll see." She punched the hold button. "Ty? It's your agent."
He reappeared from the kitchen with two glasses of water. "I'll trade you," he said, and took the cordless phone from her. "Hey, Maureen, how're you doing?"
Trish sipped her water and began working on paperwork she'd downloaded to set up autopayment on Ty's bills, even as he walked out of the room talking points and grosses. She put a great deal of concentration into filling out forms for him to sign, setting them in a neat pile on top of the invoices. Unfortunately, it was simple work that didn't do nearly enough to distract her from the white blur in her peripheral vision. The white blur that was the screenplay.
She really ought to mind her own business. Ty's script wasn't her affair. If she was going to worry about screenplays, she had an unfinished one sitting at home that could use her attention. Trish uttered another oath as she realized she'd written her own name instead of Ty's on a form and slapped down her pen.
Okay, okay, okay. She was only going to take a glance. It wasn't like she was actually prying. He'd left it open right under her nose, after all. And she was trustworthy. She wasn't going to run off and plagiarize it or spill it to the tabloids or anything. She was just going to take a peek. A harmless little peek.
The script told the story of an FBI agent tracking a killer through the world of dominance and submission. Navigating that world, she becomes enthralled with a dominant who is possibly the murderer. He leads her into the world of bondage and submission, a world of alarming fascination.
In places, especially toward the end, when the FBI agent and the dominant teamed to find the real villain, the story vaulted along and Trish couldn't turn the pages fast enough. In others, it lurched along and very nearly collapsed under its own weight. She could see why Ty was frustrated.
It didn't register to her that she was rewriting it in her head as she skimmed the pages, mentally revising the dialog, the pacing, the flow. The bones were good; it was just the flesh layered on top that was problematic. How to fix it was clear. If the heroine just said—
"Interesting reading?"
Trish jumped at the sound of Ty's voice behind her. "I'm sorry. It's not what it looks like. I was just … I mean, I thought…" She floundered, looking for the right thing to say and then huffed in impatience. "It was right here. I couldn't resist looking."
He replaced the cordless phone in its cradle and studied her. "That's right, you're a script doctor, aren't you?"
Her pulse jumped. "Hardly. I mean I was in college, but what's that worth?"
"What's the worth of this writer's track record as a paid screenwriter?" Ty countered.
"He knows his stuff. He's got the pacing and the story. There are parts that flow just fine." Her voice steadied as she gained confidence.
"It's the other parts I'm worried about."
"You're right, some of those lines don't sound like anything a real person would say."
"Exactly. And I'm the real person who's got to say them."
"Can you get them to take another crack at it?"
He shook his head. "Been there, done that. Trust me, it's better than it was before the first revision."
"But not good enough."
"Not by half. Like you said, Trish, he tells a good story, it's just the dialog that doesn't work."
"Sometimes it does." She began flipping through the pages she'd read. "This part here, where he's showing her around the club, this part is dead on."
"True. But the next scene, where they walk into the back is dead off. I mean, my character sounds like a pretentious pinhead."
"Pinhead?"
His lips twitched. "Yeah."
She dragged her eyes away from his mouth. "Well, it could be a good career move. You know, help you get out of being typecast?"
"That I could use. I just don't think that pinhead is the direction I want to go in," he said dryly.
"I don't think it's that bad, really." She skimmed the lines. "Look, up to right here where he invites her to sit and talks about pleasure and pain, it works."
"Ah yes, the 'pleasure and pain divide.' Give me a break."
"Yeah, but what about if you change it? Have him move in on her slowly, sort of hypnotically, asking her if she's ever felt ice so cold it was hot, that it's all about the point where the senses break down, where pleasure becomes pain and pain becomes pleasure. That's what you want, for him to be drawing her in so that she gets fascinated by the lure and doesn't realize the danger underneath. Or maybe she doesn't care," Trish added almost to herself. Opening up a file in the computer, she began tapping out lines of dialog, her fingers a blur of motion. "Like this, see?"
She didn't notice that Ty was studying her almost as much as the screen.
"And he's pulling her in just to amuse himself, although he starts to get in deeper than he expects as it goes forward. And that puts him in danger, eventually, I'm guessing." She glanced up to find Ty way too close to her. Her heart began thudding. "Or something like that, right?"
"Oh, yeah, you're dead on," he said slowly. "The script doesn't play it quite like that, but it should."
"He's pretty ambiguous for the first half of the film." She slid her fingers restlessly over the keys. "It's a little bit of a departure for you."
"Not nearly enough of one."
"But still, it's different."
"I don't mind different. I'm kind of looking forward to it, actually. What I mind is when the character doesn't work. Can you print out those pages you just typed? And then keep going, if you want to. I'm curious to see your take on it."
"Just for kicks, right?"
"Just for kicks," he agreed, scooping the pages up out of the printer and crossing to the couch.
The only thing she liked better than writing was editing. Trish pulled a line out of the script and followed where the conversation led in her head, hammering out the interchange as quickly as she could type. Finally, at the end of the scene, she stopped. The printer hummed and Trish stretched as the pages slid into the hopper. "Here's the rest," she said, carrying the sheets of paper over to Ty.
It made her nervous, wondering what he was going to think. She perched nearby to watch him read.
Ty lapsed back into silence. Seconds passed, then minutes. Finally, he
stirred. "So how set are you with the part in the couch?"
Trish blinked in surprise. "Um, not at all. I mean, I don't think it's mine to be set on anything. This is just for fun, Ty. You're not actually going to take this in, are you?"
"Why not? It works." He looked up. "Unless you don't want me to. I have script input rights on this one, and I'd see you got paid."
She ruthlessly suppressed the little thrill it gave her. "I don't know, I'd rather not have a guild screenwriter looking for my head on a platter."
"You kidding?" Ty snorted. "Scripts get revised all the time. They may not like it but they're used to it. Dale Westhoff, the director, is real clear on his blocking for the scene, though, so whatever changes I bring in need to work within that."
Adrenaline rushed through her. It was a chance, a real chance to do something. "What's he got for blocking?"
"I'll need you to stand in for the actress."
"Okay."
Ty rose. "So they've walked into his office and he's offered her a seat while he gets drinks. The whip and the rope and stuff is out, and she's caught up in looking at it while he's off at the bar." At his gesture, Trish picked up the silk rope. "Good. Now here's where he had that whole line about the pleasure-pain divide thing as he's handing her the glass of ice water, and then he talks about making her nerve endings come alive with the ice cube." He gave a pained look and sank down on the couch beside her. "We ditch the line, but we've got to have a lead-in to using the ice. Dale's really hot on it."
She swallowed. "It works fine with the new dialog. That's where he can be talking about something so cold it feels hot. Take it one more step, have him actually get an ice cube and rub it on her skin." Following the script notes, Trish lay back on the pillows propped against the arm of the couch.
"Yeah, but the part where he says 'The edge draws you, I can see it,' is where he slips the rope around her wrists and then kisses her. Totally wooden. How can we work that into your stuff?"
"Again, fix the dialog and the scene will fix itself. Skip the 'drawn to the edge' stuff and have him say something like 'don't you wonder what it's like out there, beyond where it's safe? Don't you want to try it?' and have him tease her with the rope."
"Like this?" Ty asked, moving beside her to trail the satiny tassel over the bare skin above the neckline of her tank top.
Trish shivered. "Yes. And he sees her reacting, he knows how to manipulate her sexually and emotionally because he's done it to woman after woman, and he says—"
"'You'd try it if you knew you could be safe, wouldn't you?'" Ty's voice was husky.
Trish let out a shuddering breath. "And she says 'yes.'"
Ty slowly tied the silk rope around Trish's wrists, binding them together. "And is she scared here, or curious?" His eyes were intent on hers.
"Both," Trish whispered as he pulled her hands up over her head and held them in place against the back of the couch. The slippery softness of the silk against her skin made her shudder; having her hands bound, however cursorily, was immensely erotic. The air felt cool against her skin.
Ty leaned toward her, until his lips hovered just a fraction above hers. "So he says 'you are safe with me.'"
"And she says 'I don't believe you,'" Trish managed. Her lifeline was long gone, she had nothing to keep herself from slipping into dangerous depths.
She knew it was foolish. She didn't seem to be able to help herself.
"'I don't think this is smart.'" She wasn't sure whether these words were hers or not.
His eyes were very green up close. "'We're well beyond smart.'"
"'I shouldn't be doing this.'" Trish's words were barely audible.
"'You want it anyway,'" he whispered.
And his mouth claimed hers.
The kiss wasn't soft and easy, like the first time. It was hard, urgent, drawing her down into a churning whirlpool of sensation. This time wasn't about exploration, it was about knowing where they were going, knowing how it would be.
Trish moved to touch him. Her wrists pulled against the rope and a little lick of arousal whipped through her. Bound. Tied. Ravished. His tongue tantalized hers and she moaned. His fingers traced the band of skin exposed where her tank top had ridden up and she craved it. She wanted more, his hands hard against her, on her breasts, stroking down her sides, touching her everywhere.
Her gasp was loud in the quiet of the room.
Trish pulled her wrists apart involuntarily and the rope, already loose, unwound, freeing her hands to slip down into Ty's hair. Part of her missed the thrill, part of her savored the feel of his muscles under the shirt as her hands slid lower. She wondered what he would feel like naked, how it would feel to have only bare skin under her fingertips.
She wondered if she'd ever have the nerve. Perhaps she should just stick with his divinely decadent kisses, but that wasn't possible because she knew there was more and she wondered just where it would take them. She wondered—
The phone shrilled in the background. For a moment, they both froze as though part of some tableau of decadence. Then it shrilled again and Trish jolted.
Ty raised his head. "I keep meaning to turn that damned ringer off," he muttered.
Trish sat up, raking her hair off her face. "Oh, I don't know, I think it's a useful reminder," she said, dropping the rope in his lap.
The answering machine picked up and the voice of his agent filled the room. Ty swore pungently and got up off the couch. "I'd better get this."
Trish resisted the urge to bang her head against the coffee table. She should have seen that one coming a mile away. Then again, maybe she had seen it and just didn't care because the man kissed like a god. That was it. That was what she felt like, one of those maidens in Greek mythology who got seduced by a deity who'd come down to Earth in the guise of a mortal or a swan.
Enough of the flights of fancy. The fact was that she'd let herself get overheated and overexcited, and now she'd gotten into something with a client. A client.
This time, she did bang her head. A deep breath worked better, though.
After all, there were facts at work here. Fact number one, there was no way Amber was letting her out of this job, so she had to find a way to work with Ty Ramsay. Fact two, it wasn't as if he'd ravished her without her consent. She'd been into it just as much as he had been. Playing the maiden wronged was right out. A guy like Ty probably never worried about kissing a woman anyway. He did it all the time, it didn't mean anything. The kind of women he hung out with were sophisticated. They didn't get their worlds rocked by a kiss, likely because they didn't go years between kisses.
Trish squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them again. Okay, numbers worked. First thing, sit at the desk and get back to work. Second thing, act as though it was no big deal. Third thing, she thought, settling down at the table, don't do it again.
It was that pesky third thing that was going to be the problem.
Ty walked back into the room, the phone down by his side. Trish gave him a neutral glance. "All set?" She finished filling out the last form and paper-clipped a cancelled check to it, then checked her watch. "Okay, the checks and autopay forms are filled out, all you need to do is sign them and I'll get them in the mail." She indicated the stack. "I made your appointments and wrote them down on this calendar. The letters just need your signature and they can go. If there's anything else, make a note of it and I'll take care of it tomorrow."
"Trish," he said quietly.
"It's almost five," she continued, ignoring him. "I figured I'd head out unless you needed something else."
"Trish."
"What?" She met his eyes and tried to stifle a more noticeable response.
"Something happened here."
Keep it light and easy, she reminded herself. "Don't sweat it. We were playing around with the script and got carried away. Don't worry about it. It's nothing." She knew how this game was played.
Ty's jaw tightened. "I'm not sure what it was, but I don't think nothing is th
e right word for it."
"Don't go sappy on me, Ty," she said. "I work for you. We'd be better off keeping the physical stuff out of it because it clouds the waters, but I'm not going to go throw myself off a bridge because we kissed."
He walked up, reached out and took her chin in his hand.
"What are you doing?" Trish shook him off in alarm.
"I'm trying to understand something. You were one person at Sabrina's party, you were another one this morning, and now you're someone else. I'm just trying to figure out which one is you."
Trish slung her satchel over her shoulder and walked to the door. "Maybe they all are."
* * *
6
« ^ »
Spiders had the right idea, Trish thought as she walked down the Venice street in the rain. Eight limbs. Too bad she wasn't like them. That way, she calculated, she could have two legs for walking and another three to manage the enormous cardboard portfolios she held and still have a couple to open doors. Like the glass one leading into the Galerie Vizquel.
Propping the cardboard on the wet sidewalk while she worked her way inside wasn't an option. Ty would probably be having kittens if he knew she were even carrying them through the rain, judging by his cautions to her. He must have paid a bundle for the works to be that worried.
Trish sighed.
Heels clicked on the sidewalk behind her. "Here, let me help you." A slender arm reached past her to open the door.
"Thank you so much." Trish turned to see a thin, exquisite-looking woman with a raven-dark asymmetric bob, nearly as tall as Trish in her stylish heels.
"Don't mention it." She waved Trish through, then followed her into the gallery. "The framing area's in the back."
"I take it you work here."
"Live here, more like it." She helped Trish lay the sheets of cardboard on the table. "I'm Jocasta Vizquel, the owner. So what do we have here?"
"Some prints to frame for Ty Ramsay."
Jocasta's mouth curved in pleasure. "I've been waiting for these." She broke the tape and pulled apart the sheets of cardboard. Each held a carefully protected print. Or not prints, exactly, Trish realized, watching Jocasta pull the top tissue away from one.
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