Second Act

by Herkness, Nancy

  They’d meandered over to inspect a large oil painting of New York in the 1800s when the voices picked up a sudden note of urgency and heads began to swivel toward the entrance all the way across the crowded room.

  “And he’s here,” Quentin said softly but with a certain tension.

  Jessica spun around, her heart pounding like a racehorse’s at the starting line. She swallowed to clear the knot of tension tightening around her throat.

  “Let him come to you,” Quentin reminded her. “I promise you he will.”

  Somehow she stood still as she caught short, flashing glimpses of Hugh, devastatingly handsome in the tuxedo that fit across his broad shoulders like a glove. She tried to read his expression, but he wore his movie-star-meeting-the-public mask, giving nothing away. He smiled, he nodded, he shook hands, and he never stopped moving. She wondered with a sudden breathlessness if he was searching for her in the crowd.

  Her nerves coiled tighter and tighter as he got closer, and she worried that her stomach might reject the wine she’d just drunk. Quentin was talking, but it was pure static in her ears. Her entire focus was on the man now just three knots of people away. How would he feel about her surprise appearance at the party? Would he walk away or hear her out? She scanned the polite smile on his face, the attentive angle of his head, the squared set of his shoulders, and his every gesture, desperate for any clue that might help her prepare for their encounter.

  The crowd shifted as Hugh approached, leaving a clear line of sight between them. He froze into absolute stillness, his smile evaporating, his blue gaze locked on her like a laser, and she lost her ability to breathe. She summoned up a smile and nodded, just as he had been doing.

  Without a word to the people around him, he came straight toward her, ignoring greetings and proffered hands as he passed. His dark tux and long, fluid stride conjured up a large, predatory cat prowling toward his prey.

  She gripped her jeweled purse so hard that the frame pressed against the bones of her fingers as a quiver of nerves rippled through her.

  When he was within three feet of her, he came to a halt. “Jess. I can’t believe you’re here.” Astonishment rang in his voice. His gaze skimmed down her body, and a strange, tortured smile twisted his lips. “Wearing scrubs.”

  For a moment, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Seeing him again wrenched everything inside her with longing and loss. Then her heart told her exactly what to do.

  Turning to the guests nearest her, she said, “You should get out your cell phones. You’ll want to take a picture of this.” More proof that she was prepared to fight for him.

  Then she walked right up to Hugh, put one hand on the back of his head, and pulled his mouth down to hers for a kiss that poured out all of the feelings churning inside her: the wired coil of nerves, the hollow, gray ache of his absence, the sharp-clawed fear of losing him, but most of all, the heart-stretching love for everything he was.

  When he didn’t respond, despair began to roll through her in a cold, dark wave, but then his arms came around her and he crushed her against him, his mouth slanting over hers as though trying to inhale her.

  A rush of relief welled up inside her, and she allowed herself to simply revel in the wonderful, familiar feel of him: the silky texture of his hair, the exotic scent of his soap, the steel of his muscles under the wool of his tuxedo, and his mouth—oh, that clever, deft, sexy mouth! She felt the wisps of heat drifting through her body, fanned by the press of his lips to glow hotter and hotter.

  As she became aware of a ripple of applause, Hugh broke the kiss, lifting his head to look around with a dazed expression. “I forgot we were . . . let’s go somewhere else,” he said, his arm banded around her waist as he headed for a plain door set in the wall near one of the bars.

  She glanced back at Quentin, who gave her two thumbs up and a dazzling smile.

  As Hugh swept her forward, Jessica noticed one guest with her cell phone raised to take a photo or video. “Hey, if you post that on social media, will you tag me?” Jessica asked with a grin.

  The woman looked a little taken aback by Jessica’s directness, but she nodded.

  “What is going on with you?” Hugh asked.

  “Just enjoying myself.” And she was, because having Hugh’s arm around her felt so right.

  As he drew them through the crowd, people moved out of their way, some whispering, some smiling. More cell phones were lifted in the classic picture-taking pose. There would be plenty of photos out in the world, so Jessica had accomplished one part of her plan.

  When they dashed through the door, they found themselves in a hallway with scuffed white walls, a green linoleum tile floor, and bright fluorescent lighting. Bangs, clatters, and urgent voices indicated that there was food or beverage prep going on in one of the rooms off the hallway.

  Hugh ignored it all, spinning her around to face him as he gripped her shoulders. “Jess, what are you doing here?” She saw confusion, uneasiness, and—maybe—hope in his face.

  “I’m being myself in your world.” She waved down at her scrubs. “And having a blast, if truth be told.”

  His gaze flicked over her outfit again, his expression bemused. “You look amazing. Those are not your average scrubs.”

  “Quentin tailored them for me,” Jessica said. “And the jewels are on loan from Cazier. They’re real.” She touched the diamond necklace. “You see, I can do the red carpet and still be Jessica.”

  “Oh God, I never doubted that.” Hugh’s words came out on a groan. “You can do anything you put your mind to.”

  “I’ve put my mind to loving you, and I’m not going to change it.” She laid her palm against his cheek. “You can’t scare me away with a few photographers.”

  He pulled away from her touch, sending a spear of hurt through her chest, but she held on to the memory of how he’d just kissed her.

  “The photographers are just the tip of the iceberg,” he said, his voice tight with frustration. “You have an important job. Being with me will make it impossible for you to do it.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “You yourself said that once the novelty dies down, no one will bother me at the clinic anymore.”

  “I lied.” The muscles of his jaw bulged as he clenched it. He swept his hands out in a gesture of futility. “You can only survive by retreating into an artificial cocoon of security and isolation. I won’t ask that of you.”

  “Good, because I won’t do it.” She steeled herself for another rejection when she reached for his hand, wrapping both of hers around it. “I won’t leave you, either.”

  He left his hand in hers but without any sign that he wanted her touch. He looked away down the hallway and said in a low voice, “My life drove you away once.”

  The pain radiated from him, old pain, all the way from his childhood. She held his hand tighter. “You’d already left me for the glitz and the adoration, so I felt like an obstacle,” she said. “But I didn’t expect you to cut me out of your life as though I’d never existed. It made me wonder how real our relationship had been right from the start.”

  He whipped his head around to face her, his expression harsh. “Realer than any relationship I’d ever had.”

  She saw the stark truth of that in his eyes, and another wound of her own began to heal. “You wouldn’t share yourself with me fully, though. You kept secret the parts of your past I most needed to understand who you were.”

  Now he drew his hand out from between hers, taking away the warmth and physical connection she craved. “Some things you try to forget,” he said.

  “You have to deal with them first. I want to be the one who helps you do that.” She curled her hands into fists of determination. “I am not like your mother.”

  “I know that,” he snapped.

  She pinned him with her gaze, refusing to allow his anger to intimidate her. “I will not let you drive me away this time. I came here in my designer scrubs to fight for you, in front
of all the paparazzi, if necessary.”

  He dragged his hands over his face in a gesture of weariness. “I’m not worth the trouble, Jess.”

  There he was: the abandoned child lurking inside the man. She caught the loneliness of him in Hugh’s eyes, and her heart felt like it would crack in two.

  “Do you think I’m stupid enough to fall in love with a man who doesn’t deserve it?” She stepped closer to jab her finger in his chest. “You were always worthy of love. Always. Don’t let your past convince you otherwise.”

  “This isn’t about my past.” His voice became charged with vehemence. “I’ve tried to convince myself that we can make it work. But every time I look into the future, I see your love corroded into resentment, your openness and generosity hardened into cynicism.” His eyes darkened with a wrenching agony, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I don’t have the guts to face that.”

  She held out her work-roughened hands that even Quentin’s ministrations couldn’t make elegant. “You see these? They’re damn strong. You should know that, because you’ve felt them on your body. So get rid of your image of me as a fragile innocent. My vet practice is in South Harlem. I treat police dogs shot by drug dealers. I spend time at the Carver Center, where some of the kids come from backgrounds that make you cry. Yet I haven’t run away.”

  He stared down at her hands, suspended between them as she willed him to reach for her.

  When he didn’t move, she stretched up to brush back the lock of hair he’d mussed, startling him into meeting her gaze. “I love you, Hugh, with every ounce of my strength. You need to trust me enough to love me back.”

  Something flickered in his eyes, a glimmer of yearning. “I want . . .” He shook his head. “I can’t survive you leaving again.” His voice was raw with a fear that sliced into her heart.

  He stood with his head bowed, his wild, dark beauty so potent that it lit up the dingy hallway. She wanted to wrap him in her arms and cradle his head against her, so he could feel the love vibrating through her. “Come home with me,” she said. “Tonight.”

  His head jerked up, his eyes bright with a flare of hope, of desire, of longing.

  She held her breath, waiting to see if he would give her the response she so desperately wanted. If he would finally believe in her. She nearly swore out loud when the door swung open and Quentin stuck his head though it.

  “I regret the interruption, but Mr. Miller is currently fending off a worry-crazed committee of writers who want to know when they can start the awards ceremony. Evidently, you’re the opening act,” Quentin said to Hugh.

  The light in Hugh’s eyes faded. “Hell and damnation!” He raked his fingers through his hair before he said in a low voice, “I’ll come home with you . . . to talk.”

  Jessica nearly pumped her fist. She’d heard that one before. However, she allowed herself only a nod.

  Hugh crooked his arm and held it out from his side, his sharp-edged smile a challenge. “Will you accompany me into dinner?”

  “It would be an honor.” She returned his smile as she slipped her hand through the hollow at his elbow, loving the feel of his hard, muscled forearm under her palm.

  Quentin held the door for them, raising his eyebrows in a question aimed at Jessica as she passed. She held her free hand down by her side so only the stylist could see it and made a “so-so” motion in response. Quentin muttered, “Keep the faith.”

  Chapter 24

  As they crossed the expanse of burgundy carpet in the now-empty room, Jessica saw a group of people huddled around Gavin Miller near the main door. The writer glanced up before lifting a hand in greeting. “Mr. Baker is here,” he said in a carrying voice.

  All heads turned toward Jessica and Hugh before one tall, broad-shouldered woman dressed in a deep red pantsuit broke away from the huddle. “How wonderful to see you again, Hugh,” she said, striding toward them. “I was afraid you might have forgotten that you are giving the opening speech.”

  “Never, Maggie,” Hugh said smoothly as the woman fell into step beside him. “Not for an important event like the INK awards. May I introduce you to Jessica Quillen, an old friend of mine? Jessica, meet Maggie Stillwell, the chairperson of this splendid occasion.”

  Jessica peered around Hugh’s shoulder to smile at Maggie, who gave her a curious look but made no comment other than a polite hello. As soon as they reached the crowd waiting for them, Maggie took charge, directing the other committee members to disperse to the ballroom while she escorted the celebrities herself.

  Gavin Miller gave Jessica an odd, appraising smile before he introduced her to his red-haired wife, Allie. Jessica loved the other woman’s slight twang of an accent, but they had no time to exchange more than a quick pleasantry before Maggie was marshaling them for their entrance.

  Hugh kept Jessica’s hand tucked firmly against his side as they followed the tall woman down the corridor, so she could feel the heat of his body radiating through his tux jacket against her bare arm. Just that little contact sent a thrill of excitement sizzling over her skin.

  Gavin shot Hugh an amused, sidelong glance when they reached the ballroom’s double doors. “Allie and I will go before you, so we don’t dilute the crowd’s first glimpse of Julian Best.” And then he swept his wife along with him through the opening.

  Hugh stopped in the doorway. “Let’s give them a second to realize we’re here,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the vast room filled with round tables.

  More and more guests swiveled on their chairs to stare in their direction, and the volume of the conversation dropped as people gawked and whispered. Jessica hadn’t been prepared for quite so many pairs of eyes trained on her scrubs all at the same time, but she lifted her chin and gave them her best sparkling smile.

  “And now we’ll proceed,” Hugh said, moving her forward with him. “Front table, dead center.”

  She slid a glance up at him to find that he was also smiling for the crowd and occasionally saying hello to someone at a table they passed. Although a few people eyed her unusual outfit askance, virtually all the attention was focused on the man at her side, a surprise benefit to Hugh being so famous—and gorgeous, of course. She could just lurk in his shadow.

  The walk seemed drawn out, but they finally arrived at the table of honor, where Gavin, Allie, and Maggie were already seated, along with a few strangers and some prominent authors whom Jessica recognized from their book-jacket photos. There was a rustle of greetings as she and Hugh sat down in the last two chairs, making her wonder whom she had displaced. She also felt guilty about deserting Quentin, but he’d told her not to worry about him if things went well with Hugh.

  Maggie allowed the greetings to finish before she stood and indicated that Hugh should come with her, leading him up a set of steps to the side of the stage. She ducked back into the wings while Hugh strode across the stage to the podium. Jessica drank in the lithe grace of his long legs, the tousle of his silky hair, the blaze of his turquoise eyes, and the sheer charisma that made the audience go quiet without a word or gesture from him.

  He braced his hands on the podium and smiled out at the room. “Welcome to the eleventh annual INK awards,” he said. “I’m Hugh Baker, your grateful servant, an actor who would have nothing to say without the words you all give me.”

  Of course he spoke from memory, as though he was just sharing his thoughts with the rapt audience. His speech was short but graceful, projecting a genuine gratitude toward the writers who filled the room. As he descended the steps, Jessica whispered to Gavin, “That was a terrific speech. Did Hugh write it?”

  Gavin gave her a roguish look. “I might have assisted.”

  “I had a feeling,” Jessica said. “Did you write his speech for your award as well?”

  The author chuckled. “I offered, but he refused to allow me to sing my own praises. He knew I wouldn’t hold back.”

  Hugh returned to the table, seating himself beside Jessica. “Wonderful speech!” she sai
d. “Every writer in this room thinks you’re brilliant.”

  “Because Gavin made sure I sucked up to them mercilessly,” Hugh said, but amusement glinted in his eyes.

  “Well, yes,” Jessica said. “However, writers are pretty important to actors, after all.”

  “I like this woman,” Gavin said.

  “I told you that you would,” Hugh said, sending a little wavelet of gratification rippling through Jessica. He’d discussed her with his closest friend in a positive way.

  Then he swamped her with delight when he slid his hand onto her thigh beneath the tablecloth and gave it a gentle squeeze, his fingers strong and warm against the thin cotton of her scrubs. Her eyelids threatened to flutter closed while she savored the fact that he had returned to his old habit of touching her in public without seeming to do so. It was a good sign.

  Allie leaned forward to catch Jessica’s attention. “I love your outfit. It’s got major pizzazz. You’ve inspired me to work harder on my PT scrubs.”

  “Yes, well, the diamonds might be a little over-the-top,” Jessica said, her tone wry. She had been so focused on Hugh that she’d forgotten what she was wearing.

  “Don’t change a thing,” Gavin said. “If you’re going to prove a point—especially to someone as thick skulled as Hugh—prove it emphatically.”

  Jessica gave a little choke of laughter as Hugh tossed a dark look at his friend. “Of course, your thought process has always been a model of clarity,” he said.

  Allie leaned in again to say in a stage whisper, “I love it when these two get going on each other. It keeps their egos in check.”

  The banter was interrupted by a waiter serving appetizers of trout pâté. Jessica had just picked up her fork when a shrill, insistent alarm shrieked from her tiny clutch, sending her fork clattering onto the plate and her heart into a spasm of dread.