by Ruth Langan
Right now, the man sitting beside her seemed almost carefree. At least for now, he’d managed to put his demons to rest.
“Come on. Play a card. Where’s your mind?”
She looked up, grinned. “While I’m feeling lucky, let’s add something more to the pot.”
“Like what?” He eyed her with suspicion.
“The loser makes breakfast. Deal?”
He stared at her outstretched hand. “Oh, you really think you’re going to put one over on me, don’t you? You were already supposed to make breakfast, so it’s not much of a deal at all. Let’s really fatten the pot. Loser makes breakfast and dinner.”
“All right.” She continued holding out her hand.
“You know, I’m going to like sleeping in while you slave over the fire.” He caught her hand in his and roared with laughter. “It’s a deal, Hollywood. Loser makes breakfast and dinner tomorrow. Now, let’s play cards.”
Seven
Jace lay in his bed in the loft, listening to the soothing sounds around him. Outside the wind gusted, sending an occasional spray of snow against the windowpane. A dove cooed from its nest under the eaves. He’d spotted three eggs there earlier and figured the poor bird and her mate were working overtime to keep them warm until the unexpected spring snow melted. Downstairs, the flames hissed and snapped as sap from the wood sizzled and the bark ignited. He’d added a log to the fire before coming upstairs a little after four in the morning.
What a strange night it had been. He’d been suffering the worst possible torment when Ciara had first come out of her room. He’d resented her intrusion into his private hell, and had no intention of sharing his misery with her. With anyone. And yet, just minutes later, he’d found himself telling her everything. What sort of magic did this woman have that she could inspire such trust? He hadn’t even divulged this much to his own family. Yet there he’d been, telling her the most intimate details of his life.
She was a good listener. She never stopped him to ask inane questions. She hadn’t said all the things most people would have said after such a shocking revelation. She hadn’t offered him pretty words or empty platitudes. She’d said only that she was sorry. And that he needed time.
Time. That’s what the doctor had ordered. But he felt as if time was running out. He had important decisions to make. About his career. His future. He felt frozen in time. Unable to move forward. Unwilling to go back.
Was he ready to return and face the familiar places that brought back so many painful memories? If he did, would he have to live with the nightmares forever?
But if he chose not to go back, what was he supposed to do with the rest of his life? He absently touched a hand to the scar at his cheek. He was forty years old, and he’d spent almost half his life overseas, covering the most important events of the day. Maybe it was time to step back and take a hard look at his life and his options.
He could always get a job as a journalist here in the U.S. Any one of the networks and wire services would be happy to have a veteran reporter who knew his way around the bureaucracy. But wouldn’t the news stories seem tame after what he’d been covering for the past fifteen years? And wouldn’t he resent having to compete with slick young journalists half his age?
He could teach journalism. There were a number of universities who’d expressed an interest. The thought of teaching at a university level had a certain appeal to him. And there was the book that was nagging at the edges of his mind. Actually, he’d been mentally writing it for years. The plot was all there. And the characters. But he’d not yet put down a single word. He’d always promised himself he’d tackle it when there was time.
No time like the present. But was he ready to hang it all up and start over? Could he really leave traveling the world behind, and settle down in one place? Or was he only fooling himself?
He closed his eyes a moment and listened to the morning sounds. So quiet. No explosions. No automatic weapon fire in the distance. No screams and cries. No sirens wailing. And yet, he always seemed to be waiting for that eruption of sound to break the silence. It had become as much a part of his routine as sleeping in dingy hotel rooms and eating half-cooked food on the run.
He realized with a shock that he was actually enjoying this pleasant break from routine. He liked waking at his leisure, with no deadlines to meet. And he liked having the time to mull over his possible future, without another crisis to interrupt his thoughts. He liked cooking what he wanted, when he wanted.
He heard Ciara’s door open, close. The muted footsteps as she crossed the room. The sound of water running as she filled the kettle with water. Within minutes the cabin was filled with the wonderful perfume of coffee brewing over the coals.
He found himself grinning. He’d finally beat her at gin. Of course, he’d taken advantage of her. She’d been bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, but he’d refused to let her go to bed until they’d played the final game of winner-take-all.
She was such a contradiction. Sophisticated and sweet. Simple yet sly. Brandy and popcorn. He chuckled.
Suddenly, he was wide-awake and eager to start the day. He bounded out of bed. He couldn’t wait to see her again. He loved having her for a sparring partner. She was just tough enough to fight back, and he liked that in a woman. Besides, he couldn’t wait to taste whatever she was going to fix for breakfast.
Ciara stomped snow off her boots and set the items she’d retrieved from the shed on the kitchen counter. She turned at the sound of Jace’s footsteps.
“You came to gloat, didn’t you?” She eyed him as he descended the stairs, a towel slung over his arm, his shaving kit in his hand.
“And a cheery good morning to you too.” He gave her his most charming smile.
He looked even more irresistible this morning—barefoot, shirtless, with a growth of stubble darkening the lower half of his face. His voice was still a little rough from sleep, giving it a sexy edge.
“Starting breakfast, are we? I’ll have my eggs over easy, and my toast dry.”
“You’re not in a hotel, and I’m not your maid. So you’ll have whatever I feel like fixing.” She watched as he headed toward the bathroom.
She turned away, smiling as she hung up her parka. The truth was, she welcomed the chance to have something to do. She was always able to think better when her hands were busy. And she had way too many problems crowding her mind right now.
She rummaged in the cupboards until she located the proper tools. Then she started dicing ham, slicing onions, grating cheese. It would be tricky making an omelette over the fire. But she figured since she’d already mastered the art of making toast and hot chocolate, popcorn and good strong coffee, she could manage this as well.
While she worked she mulled over her unhappiness with Brendan. Why was she feeling so uneasy at the thought of marriage to him? He was handsome, charming and amazingly successful as the star of dozens of action films.
He was also moody. His temper seemed to rise and fall in direct proportion to his box office numbers. Lately, though he was still able to command millions for each new contract, his films had been slipping in the ratings. She couldn’t quite dispel the nagging little fear that he might be hoping to improve his ratings with their marriage. Her own ratings had been going up. Not that she was treated with any respect as an actress. But her films brought in the money, and that was all that mattered to the studio. And she had a following that Brendan had referred to several times. A following he hoped to tap into.
Another thing that worried her was the fact that Brendan was a party animal. He loved nothing more than to be surrounded by his friends, in both show business and the media. No matter how wild the time, he was always the life of the party. A couple of times he’d stepped over the line. Of course, the few times his name had been linked with anything unsavory, his fans had quickly forgiven. But that only made him think he could get away with just about anything.
It was true that lately, aware of Ciara’s discomfort with
the press, he’d gone out of his way to protect her privacy. Except for the wedding, she thought ruefully. Even then he’d been wildly apologetic, insisting that though he understood her desire for a simple, solemn marriage, he also had to consider the needs of his fans. They deserved to be included in this very important event. Still, the leaks to the press rankled. And she couldn’t help wondering if she could ever expect Brendan to put her first. If he couldn’t do it for this, the most important event of her life, wasn’t it natural to expect that she’d always have to take a back seat to his fans, his career, his fun?
Was it really Brendan that was the problem? Or was she, as Brendan suggested, merely too self-absorbed and selfish to see another side to this? That accusation had really stung. From the beginning of their involvement, Ciara had gone out of her way to consider Brendan’s wishes before making any plans. She’d even conferred with his agent before scheduling their wedding date, so that there would be no conflict with his film commitments. And then he’d betrayed her by notifying the press of their plans.
She pressed a hand to her temple to blot out the unpleasant thoughts. They always gave her a headache, and this time was no exception.
By the time Jace stepped out of the bathroom, Ciara had the coffee table set for two and was just sliding the omelette onto a platter. He was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. His face was clean-shaven and his hair glistened with droplets of water.
“I see my timing is perfect.” He set aside his shaving gear and breathed deeply. “If breakfast tastes as good as it smells, I’m going to be one happy man.”
“Men and their stomachs.” She laughed. “You can pour the coffee while I check on the toast.”
She speared perfectly browned toast from the coals and set them on a plate. As she turned, she saw Jace add just a pinch of sugar to her coffee. Her day got a little brighter.
She divided the omelette, and passed him the toast. “Dry. The way you requested.”
“What a conscientious chef you are.” He took his first bite of omelette and sighed with pleasure.
“Just paying my dues.”
He took two more bites before he could slow down enough to talk. “I’ll give you a chance to get even.”
“You’re darn right, you will. And I intend to wait until you’re so tired you can’t see straight. Just the way you did to me last night.”
He set his fork down with a clatter. “Are you accusing me of cheating, Ms. Wilde?”
“Of taking advantage of your opponent, Mr. Lockhart.”
He grinned, picked up his fork, and continued eating. “All’s fair in love and cards.”
“That’s war. And that’s exactly what this has become.”
“Okay.” He lifted his arms in mock surrender. “I surrender. At least for now. Truce?” He stuck out his hand.
“Okay. Truce. For now.” She accepted his handshake.
A bolt of lightning would have been less shocking. They pulled apart and ate in silence.
Finally Jace sighed. “This is the best omelette I’ve ever tasted. And to think you did it all over an open fire. Will you marry me and cook my breakfast every day of my life?”
She couldn’t help laughing. “It would be a lot easier on you if you’d just hire a good cook.”
“All right. Will you give up acting and come to work for me as my cook?”
Her laughter grew. “You couldn’t afford me.”
He sighed. “You’re probably right. But I’d certainly be the envy of my friends. Just think— Ciara Wilde cooking omelettes. Making eggs Benedict. And once in a while, French toast.” He arched a brow and gave her a sly smile. “Speaking of French, maybe I could buy you one of those sexy little French maid uniforms.”
“Uh-huh. You’ve got great fantasies.”
“And you’ve got a great body, Hollywood. I can already see you in that little black number. With maybe nothing more than a big bow in back.”
She shot him a sideways glance before draining her coffee. “You’ve been cooped up too long. Your brain’s turning to mush. You definitely need to get outdoors and chop wood…or something.”
“It’s the, ‘or something’ I’d like to consider. Want to play in the snow?”
“That does it.” She stood. “I paid my debt. The dishes are your responsibility.”
“Where are you going?”
“Into my room. To work on my screenplay.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather play in the snow?”
She tossed him a kitchen towel and strolled into her bedroom. Over her shoulder she called, “A word of advice. Find an outlet for all that nervous energy.”
“But that’s what I was—”
“A constructive outlet,” she interrupted. “One that doesn’t involve me.”
“You’re turning into a real drudge, Hollywood. You’re no fun at all.”
Ciara wandered out of her bedroom, notebook in hand. Hearing a strange sound outside, she walked to the window. Jace had actually taken her advice and was splitting logs. She stood, mesmerized by the sight of him. He’d removed his parka and had rolled the sleeves of his shirt. The muscles of his arms and shoulders rippled as he swung the ax over his head, then brought it biting into the wood with such force that the log split into pieces. Jace set aside the ax and added the wood to the neat pile, then set another log in place and repeated the process.
She felt her throat go dry as she stood perfectly still, watching. He was so ruggedly handsome, so competent, he took her breath away. In fact, she realized, he was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. From the slightly mussed hair to the perfectly sculpted body. From those deep, soulful eyes, to that quick, heart-tugging grin.
He’d tease her unmercifully if she ever expressed such thoughts aloud. But it was the truth. And the more she watched, the more she was tempted to feel that strength. To have those muscled arms around her, holding her, stroking her. To have that strong, hard body pressed against her, and that warm, clever mouth on hers.
She stood a moment longer, then spun away, breaking the spell. What was the matter with her? It had to be this enforced idleness. She had run away two weeks before her wedding with no plan in mind except to escape the media circus. But now that she’d had some time to think, she was beginning to fantasize all sorts of crazy things.
One wild fantasy was that she could step back from celebrity life, and actually make it as a screenwriter. The thought of spending long hours like this, alone with her thoughts, out of the spotlight, was the sweetest dream of all. But could she? Could she make enough money to keep herself and her family as comfortable as they were now? Or was she only fooling herself?
She thought of the frightened little teen who had arrived in Los Angeles without knowing a single soul. She’d never told her family of the hellish nights she’d spent alone, crying her heart out, because she’d been scared to death and there was no one she could call on for help. She never talked about the endless modeling sessions, when she’d gone without food for days, living on nothing more than an apple or a box of raisins. She never talked about the strenuous workout sessions to stay in shape. Others saw only the glamour of her life, covered by the press. The movie premiers. The expensive house in Malibu that she’d bought as a refuge from the public, but which had turned into a money pit. She had kept all the fears and all the tears to herself, sharing only the good news with her family and friends.
Could she face a major life change again? She thought she was stronger now. But maybe she was only fooling herself. What if she risked it all—and lost? Who would look out for her mother and brothers then? They’d come to depend on her. How would they survive without her help?
She dropped her notebook on the table and hurried across the room to slip into her parka and boots. What she needed, right this minute, was a brisk walk to clear her mind.
When she yanked open the door, Jace was just coming up the porch with an armload of logs. He gave her a wide smile. “Now that’s what I call eager. I guess you missed me
, didn’t you, Hollywood?” When he caught sight of her face, his smile faded. She was as close to tears as he’d yet seen her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just need some air.”
He watched as she raced down the steps and headed toward the snow-covered hills. Then he nudged the door closed and deposited the logs on the hearth. After tending to the fire he hung his parka on a hook in the closet and kicked off his boots.
The last of the coffee was still simmering on the coals. He poured himself a cup, held a match to the tip of a fresh cigar, then noticed the notebook on the table. He picked it up, leafed through, and realized it was Ciara’s screenplay.
So this was what had occupied her time for the better part of the day. Maybe she was just unhappy with the way it was going. Maybe she’d begun to realize that writing was hard work, and she’d decided to give up the pipe dream and get back to reality. That could be why she’d run off, close to tears.
Intrigued, he settled himself on the sofa and began to read. Within minutes, he set aside the coffee and cigar, too fascinated to bother with even those minor distractions. He had no idea what he’d expected to find. Certainly not this. The characters were so alive, they nearly leapt off the page. The dialogue sizzled. And the setup from scene to scene flowed perfectly. It wasn’t just good—it was fabulous. He couldn’t stop now. He had to read to the end and see if she could actually sustain the suspense until the final scene.
Ciara climbed to the top of the hill before she paused for breath. When she finally stopped, she was amazed at how far she’d come. The cabin below was completely hidden beneath a canopy of snow-covered trees. All that could be seen was the smoke from the chimney.
Eden Fortune had been right. This place was completely isolated. She could have been in a remote, primitive wilderness anywhere in the world. A glacier in Alaska. Above the timberline in Wyoming. There was no sound but the sighing of the wind. Hers were the only footprints in the snow. She sat down on a half-submerged boulder and lifted her head at the sound of a bird’s cry. High above, two crested cardinals happily feasted on red berries that clung to a branch. They were the only spots of color in the otherwise pristine countryside.