Second Act

by Herkness, Nancy

  The door opened so fast he must have had his hand on the knob. He walked in with his head turned away in an exaggerated posture of averting his eyes while he carried the slender champagne flute to her.

  Despite the soggy towel, she felt exposed in ways that made her body prickle with a heavy sensuality. She reached up and snagged the glass, her fingers brushing Hugh’s so that a tingle shot up her arm. “Thanks. You can go now.”

  He laughed but strode back through the door. She took a sip of the light, fizzing champagne and wished he’d brought the whole bottle.

  The door opened a crack. “Let me know when you need a refill. There’s a call button by the tub.” The latch clicked into place again.

  She tossed back the champagne in an attempt to douse her unwanted reaction to his presence but only succeeded in making herself light-headed as the alcohol hit her hungry, sleep-deprived system hard. She finished her bath in a haze of fuzzy-headed longing, her nipples tightening just from running the soapy washcloth over them.

  “Damn you, Hugh,” she huffed as she climbed out of what should have been a soothing spa experience. Winding a thick towel around her like a sarong, she opened the mirrored cabinet over one of the double sinks to discover an array of toiletries that made her sigh. She wove her hair into a neat braid before she lavished a lily-of-the-valley cream all over her body and rubbed chai-spice foot balm into her tired arches.

  Turning, she eyed the pile of dirty, crumpled scrubs on the floor with revulsion. Putting those on over the expensive cosmetics she’d just used seemed blasphemous. She opened a random cupboard door and found several silk robes. The smallest one covered her from shoulder to midcalf, its softness making her practically purr as she drew it on over her now-glowing skin.

  She would ask the hotel to wash her grubby clothes before she had to don them again.

  As she started toward the bathroom door, it struck her that the counter was bare of anything except the hotel-supplied toiletries. She flicked open a couple of cabinets. Nothing except some discreetly packaged condoms, also provided by the hotel, which made her chuckle.

  Where was Hugh’s stuff?

  Tightening the bow of her belt, she went through the bathroom door and padded into the bedroom, reveling in the luxurious feel of the carpeting against her clean, bare feet.

  She stopped when she saw Hugh standing in front of the windows, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders hunched with what looked like tension. But her attention wandered over the length of his legs and the curve of his butt. He had a great butt.

  She must have made a sound, because he pivoted toward her. His expression went from somber to intense as his gaze raked over her. “You look . . . clean.” He gave the last word an inflection that brought the flames of her desire roaring to life.

  “I probably smell a lot better, too.” She tried to shrug away her unwelcome reaction to him.

  He walked to a table that appeared to be sculpted from a single block of wood and picked up the champagne bottle. “Would you like another glass?”

  “I should eat something first,” she said, still feeling muzzy headed. “Alcohol on an empty stomach is a dangerous thing.”

  “Of course.” He seemed off balance, a rarity for Hugh. “Downstairs.” He gestured for her to precede him.

  She looked around the bedroom instead. No suitcase. No shirt draped over a chair. No phone charger coiled on the dresser. “Where are your things?”

  “My things?” He looked around the room as though they’d disappeared without his noticing.

  “Clothes. Toothbrush. What normal mortals travel with.”

  “Ah, those things.” He gave her a guilty half smile. “They’re at Gavin’s. I usually stay there when I’m in New York.”

  “Then what are we doing at this hotel?”

  “Giving you some much-needed rest and food. And a bath. In private with no obligation for social niceties.”

  “You shouldn’t have rented a whole suite just for me to take a bath. I have a perfectly functional bathroom at home. It’s ridiculous.” Yet it was also grand and oddly sweet. A pinwheel of pleasure spun in her chest.

  Hugh chose that moment to close the distance between them. He raised his hands to cup her shoulders, his touch radiating through the silk of the robe. His eyes held shadows, and his expression was somber. “When I saw you in that stinking closet, curled up on a damn dog bed, I needed to do something for you. All I could think of was getting you out of there and to a place of comfort and ease. Please accept this as a small gift for being who you are.”

  “I don’t need anything for being me.” But she remembered that he had often brought her little presents when they were together, things he would see on his way home from an audition or a carpentry job. A silver necklace with a tiny cat hanging from it by its paws. She still had that, tucked into its little blue velvet pouch. A moose-tracks ice cream sundae because the flavor was hard to find. A hand-thrown bud vase glazed in shades of purple, her favorite color.

  It had touched her because he chose them with care, an endearing trait in a man who might easily have been self-centered. She huffed in frustration with herself and him. “I thought you were staying here.”

  “Why does that matter?” He smiled as he squeezed her shoulders gently. “You’ve already dirtied the towels, so we can’t give it back now. Relax. Enjoy.” He released her. “Now let’s get some food in you before you get any crankier.”

  “I’m not—” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m a little irritated, is all.” But he was right, of course. He hadn’t forgotten that she got grouchy and headachy when she went hungry for too long.

  She shoved her hands in the pockets of the robe and started toward the door. When she moved, the fabric brushed against her bare skin, reminding her that she was naked beneath it. She should have put on her panties at the very least, because somehow she felt as though Hugh could see right through the silk. And that sent a zing of heat down into her belly.

  “Do you think the hotel could wash my clothes real fast?” she asked as Hugh came up beside her in the hallway.

  “Of course. I’ll give them a call.”

  “‘Just touch the concierge button,’” Jessica mimicked. “I think I need a concierge at my place.”

  Hugh was silent.

  Comprehension hit her. “You have one, don’t you?”

  “Just my assistant, Trevor.”

  “Only one?” She exaggerated her skeptical tone.

  He gave a short laugh. “I’m not that high maintenance.”

  “I wonder if Trevor would agree.”

  “He has often told me what a pleasure I am to work for.” He sent her a sideways glance heavy with irony.

  “Thank goodness you know how unreliable that compliment is.”

  When they reached the foot of the stairs, Hugh gestured toward the spacious, glass-enclosed living area. A table covered in taupe linen had been set up in a spot that commanded views on both sides. Hugh pulled out one of the chairs for her. When he pushed it back in, she could swear she felt something brush the top of her head. Had he just kissed her hair? She must be imagining things.

  He opened the doors of a warming cabinet that stood next to the table, reaching inside to pull out a linen-lined silver basket. The muscles of his back bunched and stretched like waves under the close-fitting fabric of his sweater. “Chocolate croissants.”

  Now memory welled up inside her like tears. He used to have a chocolate croissant waiting for her on the kitchen counter when she got home from a night shift at the animal hospital. He would lay a single blossom alongside it with a little note explaining what his choice meant in the language of flowers. She examined the roses in the center of the table, perfect half-opened blossoms in pale pink with touches of yellow, and wondered if they had some significance.

  Flipping back a corner of the napkin covering them, she picked up the warm, flaky pastry and put it on her plate. “And one for you?”

  He shook hi
s head. “My trainer would blow a gasket.”

  She let her gaze skim down his lean, ripped body. “Seriously?”

  “Julian Best eats nothing but filet mignon and caviar, so Hugh Baker does, too, when the movie is being shot.” He grimaced. “Along with beets, spinach, soybeans, and far too much kale. No sugar, no carbs.” His expression turned wry. “I have to look like I’m capable of hanging on to the skid of a hovering helicopter with one hand while saving the damsel in distress with the other.”

  She had no problem believing in his physical capabilities. She’d felt the steely strength of his arms as he lifted and carried her without so much as breathing hard. The memory sizzled through her body.

  “I’m glad I’m a vet and can eat whatever I please.” Jessica took a bite of the croissant and moaned with pleasure at the combination of light, buttery roll with semibitter dark chocolate. When she glanced at Hugh, he was watching her with an odd, nostalgic smile playing around his lips.

  “You still like chocolate croissants.” He gave a nod of satisfaction before turning back to the warming cabinet and pulling out more food. “We have eggs scrambled with caviar and cream cheese. Pumpkin-spice pancakes with caramel syrup. Filet mignon topped with a poached egg. Sides of chipotle-spiced bacon, pheasant sausage, or venison hash.”

  “You could feed a small army with all this,” she said as he laid out plate after plate, the long fingers and fluid grace of his hands holding her gaze. “Stop!”

  “Some of it’s for me. Just the protein, of course,” he said, settling into the chair across from her and digging into a plate of steak and eggs.

  “So what’s it like to be a superstar . . . besides the torture of dieting?” Jessica asked, cutting a bite of pumpkin pancake. “I need details so I can wow all my friends.” She wanted to keep it light so she wasn’t as conscious of wearing nothing but a robe while she faced a man who could light her up with just his voice.

  He gave her that tantalizing half smile that pinged around her nerve endings. “Not as glamorous as it looks, but it pays well. I have a house you’d love. Right on the beach on the Monterey peninsula. You can hear the sea lions barking and the male elephant seals coughing while the otters float on their backs smashing shells with rocks.”

  “Sounds noisy.” But she’d love to be surrounded by that kind of racket.

  “We get whales, too, grays and humpbacks.”

  “That’s spectacular, but you got off topic.” She debated between more pancakes or the caviar and eggs, deciding to sample the latter.

  He chewed a bite of filet and swallowed, the muscles in his throat working under the smooth skin. “You remember what it’s like on a movie shoot. A lot of standing around waiting. Then makeup has to touch you up. Then you do the same damn scene for the tenth time but have to make it look fresh.” His voice was flat and indifferent.

  She waved her fork. “But what about the parties and the red carpets?”

  “As the phrase implies, the carpets are all the same color. Not much difference from one to the other.” He raised an eyebrow. “You weren’t a big fan of those occasions.”

  Their worst fight had been after the Academy Awards. Hugh’s agent had gotten him invited when he had been cast in the first Julian Best movie. The movie’s PR people had whipped up a storm of curiosity about the unknown but up-and-coming actor. Hugh got his Armani tux for free, but Jessica had to deal with her own dress—and their budget didn’t run to couture.

  She’d gone to a Goodwill store in LA that was famous for getting designer castoffs from the stars and found a spectacular red Givenchy gown. When the television commentator had asked her who had dressed her, she said, “Goodwill.” She’d gotten a laugh, but Hugh had been furious. She understood now that he’d had a severe case of nerves, but when he’d hissed in her ear, “Don’t embarrass me again. Tell them it’s vintage Givenchy,” she’d been horrified and hurt. Especially since they’d been joking about the dress’s provenance on the way to the ceremony in the limo Hugh’s agent had sent for them.

  That was the beginning of the end for Jessica. Hugh had plunged deeper and deeper into a world she felt out of place in. She didn’t have it in her to spin her life in a way the PR people found acceptable, so she began to avoid the publicity events that Hugh thrived on, the distance between them growing with each missed occasion.

  “I’m just more comfortable in scrubs than Armani,” Jessica said as Hugh waited for her to respond to his comment about the red carpet events. “Speaking of which, aren’t you going to call the hotel about getting mine washed?”

  “It’s not really necessary. While you were in the tub, a messenger delivered the bag of clothes I asked Aidan to pack for you.” He gave her a rueful smile. “I shouldn’t confess this, but I like having you in something that has only a sash holding it closed.”

  She had a vision of him tugging the knot of her sash loose, pushing the sides of the robe open, and cupping her breasts in his long, elegant hands. She grabbed a glass of water and took a gulp. “Oh, please, you do love scenes with Irene Bartram.”

  Distaste tightened Hugh’s lips. “Irene is about as sexy as a boa constrictor.”

  “But she’s stunning!”

  “It requires every ounce of my professionalism as an actor to get into bed with Irene.”

  Jessica couldn’t help the little smirk that curled her lips. It had about killed her to watch Hugh running his hands over Irene Bartram’s exquisite body in that first Julian Best movie. Because he’d touched the actress the same way he used to touch Jessica, and she couldn’t imagine that it wasn’t sexy to feel Irene’s flawless, creamy skin under his palms. He certainly projected extreme arousal. After the first movie, time and distance had made the love scenes easier to watch, but she’d always felt like she couldn’t measure up to Irene.

  “So you’re happy that her character got killed off in the latest book?”

  Hugh’s smile held a dark edge. “In so many ways.”

  “Wait, wasn’t she engaged to the author but they didn’t get married?” She leaned forward. “Did he do in her character because they broke up?”

  “Gavin broke the engagement well before he decided to eliminate Irene’s character.”

  “Are you and he really friends, or is that just a PR thing?” Keeping to neutral topics seemed the safest course of conversation. She took another bite of the eggs, the caviar adding an intense blast of saltiness.

  Hugh shot her a sardonic look, as though he knew what she was up to. “Gavin and I are genuine friends. While the first movie was being filmed, we discovered that we have certain similar elements in our pasts. It gave us a common ground, and the friendship grew from there.”

  “Was he in the foster care system, too?”

  “No, he had a father, a mother, and a stepmother. But that didn’t make his childhood a happy one. His stepmother was of the evil variety.”

  She’d sensed a dark side to the author of the Julian Best series, especially when it came to the dynamic between Julian and Samantha Dubois, Irene’s character. Julian knew Samantha was a double agent who was capable of betraying him at any time, but he had a continuing relationship with her anyway. It struck Jessica as twisted. “Did Gavin’s mother die?”

  “She abandoned him when his father became physically abusive. Gavin just recently reconnected with her. It turned out his father had forced her to stay away and refused to allow her to communicate with Gavin.”

  “That’s so sad and awful.” Although not quite as awful as Hugh’s experience during and after foster care. He’d bounced from foster home to foster home and then been shoved out of the system at age eighteen with nothing but a garbage bag of hand-me-down clothes.

  “You don’t have to feel sorry for him anymore. He’s blissfully married. In fact, his new wife is the one who convinced him to give Julian a normal, wholesome love interest.” Hugh’s expression held a trace of longing as he spoke of Gavin’s life.

  “So she helps him write?” A pang
of guilt hit Jessica. Did Hugh envy Gavin having a wife who participated willingly in his working life?

  “He calls Allie his muse, so I suppose she does in some way.” He surveyed the array of half-eaten food in front of Jessica and gave her one of his disarming smiles. “I bathed and fed you, so you must repay me with the story of your life.”

  “Is that a line from a movie?” she asked with suspicion. He sometimes borrowed from film scripts.

  “C’mon, Jess, tell me how you ended up in New York City. It’s not where I imagined you.”

  She began to cut the remainder of her pancakes into tiny pieces and wished she’d insisted on changing into her clothes. They would provide some psychological armor. “After we split up, I didn’t want to be in LA anymore. Too many memories.” She gave him a quick upward glance to find him looking unhappy. “So I e-mailed my favorite professor at Iowa State about a difficult case I was treating at the animal hospital and mentioned I was looking to relocate. Another of her students had started a practice in South Harlem, but the vet’s father had gotten very sick, so she needed to go home to Iowa to help him. My prof asked if I’d be interested in taking over.”

  She looked at Hugh again. His turquoise eyes were laser focused on her while his dark brows were drawn down in a furrow. “It was about as far away from LA as I could get, so I jumped at it. I also wanted to practice normal veterinary medicine, rather than getting nothing but high-pressure emergencies all the time.”

  “It appears that you get your fair share of emergencies here,” he said with a dry note in his voice.

  “Life would be boring if I didn’t face the occasional challenge,” she said, arranging the pieces of pancake into a pattern on the plate. She didn’t want to see any of the emotions crossing Hugh’s face.

  “Do you enjoy the work?”

  “Very much. My patients’ owners are so appreciative of what I do. My staff is awesome. And the community supports the clinic.” She smiled, feeling on safe ground now. “The Carver Center’s K-9 Angelz program is an incredible benefit to the kids there.”