by Cate Masters
“Yes, it’s a classic, text book, I’m sure, but it’s sentimental.”
He furrowed his brow. “It’s spies and subterfuge.” And a tough hero and gorgeous leading lady.
She poked his chest. “A love story, at heart. I pegged you as a techie nerd. Worshiping James Cameron for Avatar.”
“Ten years in the making, inventing a new camera, new language, new world, who wouldn’t worship him?”
She turned, and pressed her length against him, her grin wide as the Cheshire Cat’s. “I know your secret. You’re a softie.”
“Me? No way.” Well, maybe with her, but who wouldn’t be?
“Bet you cry whenever you watch Lauren Bacall get on the plane.”
“No, but I cry when E.T. gets on the spaceship.” He faked a sob. “And little Drew Barrymore cries.” He curled into her shoulder, shoulders heaving in the best—okay, the sole—performance of his life.
Patting his back, she crooned, “Such a liar. You can’t fool me.”
He rose up on an elbow. “You’re right. But I did cry when Drew grew up and made Charlie’s Angels.” He shook his head.
Something crossed her face, a mix of uncertainty and seriousness. “Females shouldn’t make movies?”
“I never said that.” He smelled a trap. It called for evasive action. He rested back against the pillow, keeping a wary watch.
Her brow arched. “But you think it.”
He countered her challenging tone with decisiveness. “Absolutely not.” The truth must have been the right response, because she settled back on his arm.
“Good. Because I’ve been wanting to try directing, and I plan to pursue that dream.”
Aha. She was full of surprises, all of them good, so far. “As you should.”
Another flicker of uncertainty, and surprise. “By the same token, I’d expect you to be one hundred percent honest about my work.”
“I’d never be anything less. You’re welcome to use my equipment anytime.”
She blinked. “That’s….”
Right, then she’d have to see me again. “Unless, after this not-quite-scripted date, you plan on never repeating it.” Idiot, why jinx it?
“I’m hoping to. Unless you’re not interested.”
“Well….” He drew out the tease, a bad cover for his insecurities.
She slapped his chest. “Men. Sack ’em and send ’em packing.”
He stroked her hair, and searched her brown eyes for a reaction as he said softly, “I’m interested. It scares me how much I’m interested.” Definitely too much information. Now you’re scaring her.
To his shock, she smiled. “Good. Me, too.” She toyed with his chest hair, suddenly shy. “So, you haven’t asked yet.”
“Asked what?”
“About my marriage. About Brett.” The way she winced, his very name seemed to taste terrible to her.
Ah. Hell. Dredging up the ex already. “Was I supposed to?”
A half-shrug, coupled with an unassertive nod of her head, contradicted her “No.”
“Good. He’s the last person I want to talk about.”
“Really?” She sounded as relieved as she looked.
“Oh yeah, really. Unless you count my former wife, then he’s second to last.” Couldn’t he keep her full attention for one goddamn night? Did he do something to remind her of him? Christ, no wonder he avoided dating.
“Sorry I brought it up.” Her cheery tone was thin. Nearly transparent.
Crap. He scooted down, eye to eye and forehead to forehead. “Look, we’ve both been married before. Probably both made some mistakes and learned from them. Let’s leave it at that.”
A deep sigh, and a beat, and she brightened. “Great.”
An act, for my benefit. Not a good sign, but the acting ended when he touched his lips to hers, and she clung to him sweetly. Never an expert at giving the benefit of the doubt, he was still willing to give her whatever it took. If he didn’t manage to keep her there, he’d chalk it up to experience. It would take a little longer than usual to salvage his heart.
Chapter Five
Feeling her way into his office, Susan misjudged the distance to the desk, and her toe suffered the brunt of the mistake. Pain stabbed her, and she hopped, rubbing the throbbing foot. The screech she tried so hard to hold in subsided, and she exhaled the smallest squeak.
The computer. Find the power button. She did, and held her breath again while it booted up. Thankfully, Jared hadn’t left the speakers on, so the process completed soundlessly. She eased onto the sleek leather and steel chair.
Great monitor. It was about twice as large as her laptop—he probably kept multiple programs open and shifted back and forth. She scanned through the list of programs. Impressive stuff, but beyond her capabilities—currently, anyway.
Mmm, here’s one. Two clicks, and it launched. After playing with the various options, her hands-on way of learning software, she tested it in earnest. Internet searches provided stills of breakup scenes from classic movies. She then downloaded shots from films depicting wastelands, or devastation.
The perfect juxtaposition—heartache and war. Hope his sense of humor’s as weird as mine. Easy enough to place them in sequence, and she figured out how to fade each image in and out for a smooth transition. The pièce de résistance—the clip of Lauren Bacall walking away from Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. Instead of end credits, she added a text overlay: Don’t let this happen.
The run-through of the crude video lacked something. A soundtrack. A quick search, and she found a site offering copyright-free music. Another few minutes, and she downloaded a melodramatic piece, then inserted it into the audio section of the mini-movie she’d created.
After it played, elation lifted her up from the chair. Fists pumping in the air became a full-on chicken dance of victory. “Oh yes! This will do it.”
“Do what?” Jared asked from the doorway.
She whirled and froze, wisps of hair caught in her open mouth. She flicked them away. “Hey. I thought you were sleeping.”
He shuffled toward her. “I woke up. You were gone.”
“I was here.” She moved in front of the computer screen. Now its large size didn’t seem such a good thing.
“Getting a jump on your first project?” He craned to peer past her.
She shifted to block his view. “Not exactly.”
“I see, a secret.”
“No, sit down. I think it’s ready.” God, he’s going to think I’m a maniac. Her excitement bubbled up anyway.
Eyes narrowed, he cocked his head. “Are you sure you want me to see it?”
“Yes, I made it for you. Sit.” She patted the chair. “But close your eyes until I set it up, okay?”
“Okay.”
A few clicks and the homemade clip was ready to play. “All set?”
“Fire away.”
A glance back made her pause. Hair rumpled, wearing only boxers, he looked so sexy, she almost drooled. Oy. “Here goes nothing.” Another tap of the mouse launched the video, and she stepped behind him.
Stock still, he watched the full three minutes without a word. Whoever said the suspense was killing them could have described Susan’s agony, waiting for a reaction from him. Why isn’t he laughing? It’s ridiculous. It’s funny.
Or merely laughable.
At the end, when Bacall tearily pleaded with Bogart not to send her away, he flinched once, and sat up a little straighter. The text ending floated onto the monitor, then faded.
She braced and winced, still waiting.
He scratched his cheek. “You just made this?”
“Yes. For you.”
“For me.” He gave a kind of a choked huff.
He hates it. “I know it’s awful. It was supposed to be a joke. My sense of humor’s a little off.”
“I love it.”
Did his voice break? “You do?” Then why won’t he look at me?
“How could I not? The end of Gone with the Wind spl
iced with Godzilla destroying Tokyo? Brilliant.”
She plopped onto his lap. “Don’t tease…hey.”
He turned his head, but not before she glimpsed the wetness around his eyes.
“That bad, huh?”
“It’s seriously the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
“I had to make it up to you for upsetting you earlier. For bringing up,” she shrugged. “you know.” When he began to argue, she added, “Let me explain, Jared. For the past two years, since Brett left me, no matter what I did or where I went, everyone felt the need to remind me of what a terrible failure I was. So I brought him up to clear the air, mention him once, and hopefully put it all behind us.”
He scowled. “You’re not a failure. He’s an ass.”
A white knight, fighting for me! “All the same, that black cloud’s overshadowed me constantly, like a curse.” She allowed herself to look at him. “But tonight was absolutely incredible.”
“Even though I’m not a ‘real’ man?”
Oh no. Why had she ever mentioned it? “Forget what I said. That was Desperate Susan talking, the ex-wife ready to abandon everything I’d worked so hard for in order to get away from The Ex Factor.”
“The Ex Factor? Oh, the curse?” His brow furrowed. “You’re not really considering leaving, are you?”
“Not anymore. You opened my eyes. I know what a real man is now. You.”
The light of the computer screen glowed in his face as he looked up at her, relaxed and happy. He rested his hands on her shoulders. “I hereby declare the curse broken.”
She whirled an arm in the air. “Woo hoo, no more Ex Factor. I’m free.” More serious, she said, “But that’s what I was trying to tell you. You already freed me.”
“Perfect. Because I want two people in our bed—you and me. No Ghosts of Spouses Past hovering around, getting between us.”
“Our bed?”
“If you’re in it, it’s ours.”
The sensation welling up inside her was an indescribable high. “I get such a good feeling from you.”
His mouth gaped, as if he groped for something to say.
She spoke first. “I know, I shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have put it out there to jinx us, put any bad juju on us. But it’s true.”
“Bad juju aside, I agree. Completely.” He kissed her lightly.
“Thank you for seeing past the two-dimensional tabloid image.” She returned the kiss.
Lips still touching hers, he said, “Thank you for seeing past the Thornballs Legend.”
Her attempt not to laugh failed. “You knew about that?”
“Hard not to know. I think I read some graffiti about it in the restroom, way back.”
She mock-pouted. “Oh, poor baby.”
“Now that you know the truth, will you write it in the ladies’ room?” he teased.
She wrinkled her nose. “Mmm, no.”
He feigned shock. “What do you mean, no?”
She stroked his cheek. “Then other women would know what an amazing guy you are, and try to steal you away.”
“Not a chance,” he said, all seriousness.
She jumped up.
“Hey, where are you going?”
Carefully stepping each leg beneath the steel arc of the chair’s arms, she straddled him. “I’m ready for my close-up.”
“Now that’s a sequel I’m always happy to make.”
From the hard-on rising beneath her, he was already ready for Take Three.
~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~
Cate Masters has made beautiful central Pennsylvania her home, but she’ll always be a Jersey girl at heart. When not spending time with her dear hubby, she can be found in her lair, concocting a magical brew of contemporary, historical, and fantasy/paranormal stories with her cat Chairman Maiow and dog Lily as company. Look for her at http://catemasters.blogspot.com, and in strange nooks and far-flung corners of the web.
Cate loves to hear from readers.
Email her at: [email protected]
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