God, I don't think I can stand this until the picture is over. It gets harder and harder to look at him every day. Wanting him, loving him—and getting only indifference and the cold politeness of a stranger. Nothing, not even her first movie credit was worth it.
But in another month and a half or so it wouldn't matter anyway, she reminded herself. They would be finished shooting in San Francisco today, and then the whole company would be moved up to Dorothea's house in Sonoma to film the final scenes of Devil's Lady. Two months, at most, and it would be over. She would have done her job—gotten that all-important film credit—and if she was very, very lucky she would never have to work for or with Jake Lancing again. She tried to smile at that, ignoring the fact that the thought gave her no pleasure. None at all.
She shrugged and turned away from the action going on in front of the cameras. This was the last scene for today, and when it was finished the technicians would start packing up for the move to Sonoma. She might as well start putting away her own equipment now. It wouldn't be needed until Monday morning—early—at the new location. As soon as she heard the word "cut" she would be ready to leave. She was looking forward to the weekend. Just herself and Stephanie, since Dorothea was packed and ready to leave for Sonoma after the day's shoot.
"I want to get a head start," she had told Desi, "see that the beds have been made up and the rooms aired properly and, of course, get enough of Richard's best champagne on ice. You, dear girl, will stay at the main house with me. No, no, don't argue. You are most definitely not going to a hotel," she insisted. "I simply won't hear of it! Not after I've imposed upon your generous hospitality for nearly a month."
In the normal course of events Desi would have been eagerly looking forward to spending time in a turn-of-the-century mansion—and mansion she knew it must be. Despite Dorothea's casual references to a "drafty old house," she had also mentioned a cook and an upstairs maid and had said that not only would Desi be her houseguest but several others of the cast and crew as well.
"Bring some of your pretty clothes, dear girl," she instructed Desi. "We dress for dinner." Her black eyes twinkled wickedly. "Jake will look magnificent in evening clothes, don't you think?"
There was the rub, of course. Jake. He would be staying at Dorothea's house, too. Could she take twenty-four hours a day of Jake, Desi wondered fearfully. Working, eating, relaxing—or trying to relax—with him always there, sleeping under the same roof, with their shared memories and that hungry look that he sometimes got in his eyes? The same look that Dorothea said was in hers. Could she endure that without something happening?
Well, she could, she decided, because she had to. There was no other choice. After all, Dorothea would be there, and Eldin, and several other members of the cast and crew. Jake wasn't likely to break down her door—no matter how hungrily he sometimes looked at her—not with a house full of people surrounding them.
But what about you? a little voice inside her whispered traitorously. What's to keep you from creeping to his door in the middle of some long sleepless night?
Even now, when he had just been so strange and abrupt with her, the thought of him sleeping under the same roof was unnervingly exciting. After the way he had been treating her, it shouldn't be. But, to her everlasting shame, it was.
"Cut!" The assistant director's voice carried through the open door of the trailer, where Desi was packing her equipment into a big, hard-sided, compartmentalized case. She snapped the metal clasps shut and hauled it off the makeup table, slinging her satchel over her other shoulder.
"See you on Monday," she called to Dorothea as she headed down the crowded street to the lot where her car was parked.
Chapter 9
"Night, angel," Desi whispered. She reached out to tenderly stroke the little red head of her sleeping baby.
Now she could have her own bath—or shower, rather—and then to bed. It had been a long day and tomorrow morning she and Stephanie were going to drive down to Santa Cruz to visit grandma and grandpa for the weekend before she headed up to Sonoma on Monday. It had been a month or so since they'd all seen each other.
She went into her bathroom, blue and white like the attached bedroom, and began preparations for bed; carefully creaming her skin of the day's grime, cleaning her teeth, shampooing her long hair under the piercing spray of the shower. She decided to give herself a hair-conditioning treatment—one of her little beauty rituals that had been inconvenient when Dorothea was sharing the bathroom with her. When that was finished she was no longer sleepy, so she decided to give herself a pedicure, too. There must be a good movie on cable tonight that she could watch while she pampered herself.
She blow-dried her hair, tying it back out of the way with a pink ribbon, and wrapped her creamed and powdered body in a pink-on-pink silk kimono she'd found at a flea market in China Town. Barefoot, she padded first to the kitchen for a glass of Dorothea's champagne and then into the living room. She switched on the television and settled back on the comfortable rose-colored sofa, her feet propped up on the coffee table in front of her. Threading a piece of tissue under and over her toes to keep the polish from smearing, she then carefully began to paint the nails with the newest Revlon color.
"French lilac," the bottle said. Well, it sounded pretty, she thought, but it looked like plain old pink to her. She shrugged. Maybe French lilacs were pink.
Between sips of champagne and pauses to watch Fred and Ginger execute a particularly tricky dance number she got the requisite three coats of polish applied. She was settled back on the sofa, her feet still propped up on the coffee table and carefully crossed at the ankles, and was thinking about getting up during the next commercial to pour herself another glass of champagne when the doorbell rang.
Now who could that be, she thought with annoyance as she got up and walked—on her heels and slightly duck-footed because of the tissue between her toes—toward the front door.
"Teddie?" she said, peering through the peephole.
Not Teddie.
"Jake," she said in a small voice as she automatically opened the door.
"Hello, Weston," he said casually.
"Hello, Jake." She repeated his name softly, somehow unable to say anything else at the moment. Or even think of anything else. His appearance was such a surprise and, yet, not a surprise. She had imagined him, so many times, knocking on her door. She had imagined what he would say, what she would say but, just now, she couldn't seem to remember any of it as he stood there looking so tall and vital and incredibly sexy.
He was dressed much as he had been that first night. Slim tailored slacks, pale gray tonight instead of tan, his white shirt casually unbuttoned to a modest V. He had on the same black leather jacket, too, and the same tantalizing cologne.
Oh God, he looked so good and smelled so good and, despite everything, she was very glad he was there.
"You plan on keeping me standing here all night?" His deep seductive voice prodded her and his eyes—his dark beautiful eyes—surveyed her slowly, as she had unconsciously been surveying him.
One slender hand came up to nervously finger the neckline of her robe, adjusting the flat lapels closer together. "Uh, no, of course not," she said, a little breathlessly. "Please come in."
He brushed past her before she could step back, and his upper arm skimmed lightly against her silk-covered breasts. She felt the brief fluttering contact like a tingling jolt of electricity through her body, and she took a hurried step backward, still balancing awkwardly on her heels.
Jake's expressive face indicated concern. "You okay, Weston?" he said, reaching out for her elbow to steady her.
She backed away again, avoiding his touch. "I'm fine," she said, pointing to her toes.
He glanced down at her bare feet, and his expression changed immediately to one of half-amused curiosity. "What are you doing? Surgery?" he asked.
"Just polished them," she informed him, unable to suppress a small answering smile of her own even though her i
nsides were churning. What was he doing there? What did he want?
"Did you want me for something?" she said then.
"Not you," he denied, but his eyes gave lie to his words, caressing her with a look, touching her in a way that was almost physical. "I came to see Dorothea. Where is she?"
"Dorothea? She's gone to Sonoma already. She left after the day's shoot."
"Left?" He hesitated for a moment, uncertainty flickering across his face. "Already?"
"Yes, already. She said she wanted to put some of Richard's best champagne on ice before we all descend on her," Desi added softly, her lips curving into a sweet smile in an unconscious effort to clear the frown from his face. "Was it important?"
"Was what important?" he asked absently, his eyes focused on her lips.
Desi took a step backward. "What you wanted to see Dorothea about. Was it important?"
"No," he said, still staring at her mouth. "I mean yes," he corrected himself, seeming to literally shake himself awake. He tore his eyes away from her lips with an effort.
"Yes," he said again, more firmly. "It's important. She said there was something in one of the upcoming scenes that she wanted to go over before we start shooting on Monday." He hesitated, an infinitesimal pause that would have gone unnoticed if she hadn't been watching him so carefully. "She asked me to come over tonight."
"Dorothea asked you to come over? Here? I don't believe it." Desi shook her head. "She knew she was leaving. She wouldn't—" She broke off, a terrible thought suddenly occurring to her. Dorothea most definitely would. It would be just like her to invite Jake over there for some trumped-up reason when she didn't plan to be there herself.
Oh Lord, surely she hadn't told. No, of course not. If she had told him, Jake wouldn't be standing there so casually. He would be raging at her and flinging awful accusations all over the room.
The room! Desi's eyes flew guiltily around the living room, looking for telltale signs of Stephanie. The pastel quilt she used when she put Stephanie on the floor for some play time lay folded over the back of a chair—but that was okay. It could be any quilt, not just one meant for a baby. More incriminating were the pictures of Stephanie displayed around the room. But there were lots of other family pictures, Desi reassured herself; her parents, her brothers, Eldin and even Teddie and Larry. Stephanie's were just a few among many. He wouldn't notice.
And if he did—if he did—she would just say that Stephanie was her niece. Besides, she would have him out of there in a few minutes. Simple.
"As you can see, Dorothea isn't here," she said. "She must have forgotten that she invited you over. I guess it will just have to wait until you see her in Sonoma." She made a subtle gesture, tacitly inviting him to leave.
He ignored the hint and moved farther into the living room, turning to face her where she still stood at the door, one hand resting on the ornate door handle. "Dorothea was really upset about that scene," he said softly, his dark eyes taking in her slender kimono-clad form from top to bottom. "Maybe she said something to you about it...?"
His voice trailed off as he stood there, staring at the vision she made in her thin pink kimono. Her stubbornly curly hair was tied loosely back from her face, tumbling in coppery waves almost to her waist. Her eyes were wide and inviting, her pale skin flushed, and those ridiculous strips of tissue through her polished toes were somehow charmingly endearing.
"No." Desi shook her head slowly. "She didn't mention it. I..." Her voice, too, seemed to desert her as she stared back at him, mesmerized by the smoldering gleam in his eyes.
Funny, she thought distractedly, how such dark eyes could shine so and still seem to get darker and darker. They drew her deeper into their hypnotic depths, leading her farther into something... someplace that she was more than willing to go.
Jake made a movement toward her, a barely perceptible lift of his hands, a tensing of his powerful shoulders under the leather jacket, as if he were reaching for her.
Desi hurriedly dropped her eyes, breaking his hold on her. "Maybe she left her script here," she suggested softly. "If you want to wait for a minute—" she glanced up, her eyes silently, unconsciously inviting him to stay "—I'll check for you."
"Thanks." Jake nodded his head once, that brief, characteristic gesture she knew so well. "I'll wait," he said.
"If it's here, it's probably in the bedroom." She pushed the front door shut, its soft click sounding strangely final somehow, and motioned him toward the satin sofa. "Sit down. It might take me a few minutes to find it."
As he turned away from her, moving toward the sofa, Desi bent down swiftly and yanked the strips of tissue from between her toes, bunching them into a ball in her fist. She straightened to find Jake eyeing her with knowing amusement. "I'll just be a minute," she said and escaped across the room to the hallway.
But she didn't find Dorothea's script in her bedroom because Dorothea had taken it with her to Sonoma. Desi knew that when she offered to look for it, but she had to get out of the living room for a few minutes—before she flung herself into his arms. Because, even now, she wanted to feel Jake's arms around her, feel her arms around him. She wanted to wipe the strains of overwork and worry from his beautiful brown eyes in any way that she could.
Automatically, in an effort to give herself more time, she began opening her desk drawers, looking for the nonexistent script.
Why was he here, she wondered again. Had Dorothea really asked him to come over tonight, knowing she wouldn't be there when he did? Desi knew Dorothea was capable of such a thing. There was no doubt of that. But she had promised not to tell him about Stephanie, and Dorothea was not the kind of person to break a promise, even indirectly. But, then, if she hadn't invited him over, why was he there? Had he really expected Dorothea to be there—or had he known she wouldn't be?
She remembered, suddenly, those looks she had intercepted on the set; the looks of confused desire, of longing and, lately, of a sort of grudging respect. She remembered, too, what had happened that day in his trailer. "Love sometimes comes from lust," Dorothea had said.
Was it possible? Could he have really come there tonight to see her? Was his story about Dorothea and the script just a ruse, an excuse?
Hope surged in Desi, a wild rush of joy that she tried, unsuccessfully, to stamp down.
Maybe he had come to see her!
And, then, so what if he had? It would make no difference. She still couldn't tell him about Stephanie.
She shut the last desk drawer, and then opened it again and picked up her own copy of the script. She had to have some reason for taking so long. She headed back into the living room, pausing briefly to check on Stephanie. Good baby that she was, she still slept soundly, her tiny hands curled into tiny fists on either side of her face.
"Your daddy's in the living room," Desi whispered to the sleeping baby. She reached out, resting her hand against the baby's soft cheek. It felt a little warm and the wispy curls at the temples were a bit damp. But she slept soundly, her breathing was quiet and even, so Desi simply smoothed her hair back and made a mental note to watch Stephanie more closely for the next few days. Although she'd been scrupulous about washing her hands and keeping Dorothea isolated, it was not impossible, she thought, that Stephanie could have caught Dorothea's cold.
"I couldn't find Dorothea's script," she said, coming into the living room, determined to be businesslike for the few minutes that he would be there. "But I brought my copy in case—" she began to explain, and then stopped. Jake appeared to be asleep.
He was sitting in the middle of the sofa, his long arms stretched along the back of it, his dark head resting tiredly against the rose-colored satin.
"She mentioned a scene," he said, opening his eyes as he reached out an arm for the script she held. "Maybe looking through it will give me a hint." He began flipping through it.
Desi stood apprehensively at the edge of the sofa, watching him as he looked for the proper scene. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. She
had expected him to get up and leave when she couldn't produce Dorothea's script. Not sit there, idly thumbing through hers. Every minute he was here was dangerous. To Stephanie. To her. Mostly to her, she acknowledged silently. Just looking at Jake was dangerous for her.
Jake looked up suddenly. "Sit down, Weston," he ordered, "and quit fidgeting while I try to figure out what Dorothea meant."
"My name is Desi," she shot back, not bothering to stop and think about what she said, "or Miss Weston, if you insist, but I refuse to be called Weston like some upstairs maid in my own home."
"Desiree, then," he said softly, and his eyes blazed up at her hotly.
"Desi," she insisted weakly. Not Desiree, please. Plain Weston was better than that. Desiree brought back those nights in his arms, the touch of his lips.
"Desiree," he said again, his eyes never leaving her face. He set the script aside, and it slid off the sofa and onto the floor. Neither of them noticed it. "Come here." He patted the space next to him.
Desi hesitated uncertainly, traitorous desire and common sense at war in her slender body. It would be so easy to forget these past few months, to forget his harsh words and unfair accusations, to just sink down beside him and lose herself in the smoldering depths of his dark eyes.
So easy.
But remember what happened the last time you blindly followed your instincts, she warned herself. There's a four-month-old baby asleep in the other room if you need a reminder. A baby who was the direct result of the last time you allowed yourself to melt in this man's arms.
Much as she loved her daughter, much as she could not now imagine a life without her tiny presence, she was not ready for another such experience. True, she was on the pill now. Her obstetrician had prescribed it shortly after Stephanie was born, in an effort to regulate her erratic menstrual cycle. But that was no excuse for letting herself go and abandoning good sense.
And besides, she had more pride than that, she told herself fiercely. More pride and more self-respect. She would not be a slave to her desire for him. Nothing could come of it, nothing except more pain.
One Night With You (The Heart of the City Series, Book 1) Page 12