by Claire Marti
But damn, nothing like luxury mansions to remind him he’d grown up one step away from the neighboring trailer park. And no matter how hard he worked, he’d never live like this.
When they crested another sloping green hill, he caught the panoramic view of the ranch and in the distance, a peek of the Pacific Ocean. He paused. “Whoa.”
“Pretty spectacular, isn’t it?” Angela patted his shoulder. “The first time I saw this view, my mouth dropped open. I couldn’t believe a refuge like this existed so close to San Diego proper.”
“It’s as beautiful as any view I’ve seen in all my travels. You McNeills are lucky.” He shook his head. What would it be like to see this view every day and know it was yours? He’d lived like a nomad for so long, he’d adjusted to not caring where he laid his head at night. He snorted. As if he could afford anything like this, even with his future plans.
“I’ve been here more than a decade and I’ll tell you, it never gets old. Okay, we’ll take the left fork in the path here. Almost there.”
“What is on the right?” Good thing he had a decent sense of direction.
“The stables. I’m sure you’ll be there a fair amount.”
“Thanks. I will. It’s nice to know the shortcut.” Was Sam down there now? Damn. Where had that come from?
Angela paused in front of a single-story house bigger than Holt’s childhood home. Hell, it was bigger than the new house he’d purchased for his mom and sister five years ago. “Okay, here we are.”
“Wow, can my whole family move in?” he half-joked.
“You have a family?” Angela turned her head toward him as she twisted the large pewter doorknob.
“My mom and my younger sister, Jenny. I guess when you said guesthouse I figured it’d be a cottage.” Idiot.
“Well, the house definitely holds a family of eight comfortably.” Angela laughed and entered the house. “My son Grant preferred living here to being with us in the main house. He stays here when he’s in town.”
“Wow.” He halted and looked around. Pretty sweet digs.
He followed her along the wide marble-tiled hallway which opened into an enormous great room, with soaring wood-beamed ceilings, a kitchen fit for a chef on the right side of the room, and a pale grey granite island surrounded by several navy upholstered bar stools.
To the left, a fireplace tall enough for the McNeill’s prized stallion to stand in occupied the wall. Two large L-shaped charcoal gray couches, a couple over-sized black leather chairs, a dark coffee table, and a widescreen television made up the perfect man cave.
“Right? I love this place.” Angela grinned. “Let me show you the bedrooms and then I’ll take you to the back patio so you can see the Jacuzzi and the fire pit.”
He was definitely moving up in the world.
“This is the master bedroom. This room should work for you, right?”
“Uh, yeah. This will work.” This place rivaled some of the nicest hotels he’d stayed anywhere in the world.
Was this for real? The bedroom was enormous, with the same wood-beamed ceilings and pale gray oak floors as the great room. A huge king-size bed dominated one wall and a nook with a large desk and chair served as a mini-den or workspace. The far wall was a set of French doors opening to the back patio.
“Great. There are three more bedrooms on the other side of the house, but you can explore those on your own. The fridge is stocked and you can call up to the main house if you need anything at all.”
“You’re being more than generous. I am truly grateful, Mrs. McNeill.” He followed her back into the kitchen.
“Call me Angela. So, you’re from Colorado? Are your mom and sister still there or did they come to California with you?” She bustled around the kitchen, adjusting a dishtowel, peeking in the fridge, and generally making him miss his mom.
“Yes, we grew up right outside of Colorado, a little suburb; well, not so little anymore, called Littleton. They’re both still there.”
“Your mother must be proud of your success. Chris mentioned you were the top stuntman in Hollywood?” Angela leaned against the counter.
“I’ve been successful and sure, my mom is proud of me.”
“Well, I hope everything goes smoothly with this film. It’s tough on the family and I hope you can understand and not take it personally if anyone seems to take it out on you.” A slight frown marred her friendly face.
“I was the messenger, but at the end of the day, I’m just the stuntman for the lead actor. No, I don’t take things personally, but Sam sure seems prickly.” Usually he could smooth things over with anyone. Apparently not her.
“Oh good. I know Samantha can be…” She paused and glanced skyward before looking directly at him. “Over-protective, but she has a warm heart. So, anything else I can answer for you before I let you settle in?”
“Well, actually yes. This might sound kind of—” He ran his tongue around his teeth. “Funny. Is there a local ballet studio around here?” The words tumbled out of his mouth. Damn it. Guys did ballet all the time. Hell, NFL players did ballet. He wasn’t apologizing for his training regime.
“Ballet studio?” Angela’s dark brows soared up to her hairline. “You study ballet?”
He cringed. “I wouldn’t call it study. Look, I’ve got to stay in peak shape. Brazilian jujitsu, running, weights, but ballet helps me with agility like nothing else can. When I’m doing some of the hairier stunts, it’s probably saved my life.” He wasn’t defensive, not at all. Right. His baby sister teased him mercilessly about it and had even sent him some pink tights last Christmas.
“No need to explain. It makes perfect sense to me. I’m just surprised, that’s all.” She raised her hands off to stop his excuses and grinned. “You don’t usually see the guys wearing cowboy boots at the barre. Ballet has several different purposes besides performing The Nutcracker. As a matter of fact, there’s a studio tucked into Rancho Santa Fe.”
“Yeah, I don’t exactly advertise this part of my training plan. So I can drop in?” Perfect. He could be discreet and nobody would be the wiser, unlike L.A., where he could run into someone in the industry at any given time. Never fun.
“Absolutely. We know the owner, since the girls…”
“The girls?” Shit.
“It’s just a local studio and the girls danced when they were younger.” Her eyes twinkled and her smile broadened. “It’s called The Dance Studio and I happen to know there is a 5:30 class today. Just tell Cecile that Angela sent you over.” Angela waved and left.
8
Sam parked her car in the hidden spot around the back of The Dance Studio and shut off the engine. She’d run on autopilot all afternoon, but she’d finished her errands. Anytime thoughts of Dylan running away to Paris surfaced, she ruthlessly squashed them down. Of course it would be fine. She would be fine. She was always fine.
But damn––the yin to her yang would be gone and she had a feeling Dylan’s soothing influence would be missed over the next month. Not like her sister lacked inner fire, but her twin had received the lion’s share of softness. So, she’d just have to ride Buttercup more, dance more frequently, and heck, maybe even work to step up her practically non-existent dating life.
Not that she was against having a boyfriend, or even a casual friends-with-benefits situation, but who had the time? Maybe a fling with a surfer boy could be a distraction. Heck, she could call up a few of her SDSU girlfriends and even drag Amanda out for a girls’ night. She hadn’t seen her old friends recently, but everyone knew she went underground during breeding season.
“Enough” she muttered to herself. No need to ruminate. When she danced, all of her emotions lifted up and out of her tissues and the sensations were the language of her body.
Grabbing her bag containing her leotard, tights and shoes, she headed into the back entrance of the studio. She’d known Cecile since they’d moved to Rancho Santa Fe and was able to come and go as she pleased. Time to sweat everything to do wi
th the movies away.
Samantha stuck the final pin into her sleek bun and smoothed down her plain black leotard. Her pale pink tights and ballet slippers always transported her back to her childhood, when dancing was her whole world. She loved this studio with its no nonsense layout and no frills approach. For the next hour, she prayed she’d find some solace.
She slammed the black metal locker door shut, spun the combination lock, and hurried out into the large square room. Sunlight filtered in from enormous rectangular windows on the west wall, reflecting off ruthlessly polished light oak floors. Usually she arrived early and staked out her favorite spot away from the gleaming mirrors, but tonight, only a few spaces remained along one of the three wooden ballet barres. Oh well, she wasn’t so rigid she couldn’t dance in a different area of the studio. She was flexible. Flexible, ballet—ha ha. She snickered to herself as she extended one leg up onto the barre and folded forward, stretching her hamstrings.
Her eyelids closed and she focused on her breath. Time to channel quiet, calm, and grace. Nothing more. The crisp scent of ivory soap alerted her another student filled the empty spot beside her, but she filtered out the pleasant smell and kept her nose pressed into her shin. When she danced, everything except the music and the ballet faded away.
The instructor, Cecile, clapped her hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, first position, left hand on the barre.”
Sam’s eyes popped open. Gentlemen? There was a guy in class? Curious, she swept her leg down and glanced around. Her mouth dropped open.
Him? Too Hot Hollywood in her ballet studio? Her fingers curled into fists and heat rose into her cheeks. “You. Did you follow me here?”
“Huh?” He gaped at her.
“Samantha. Silence. First position.” Cecile snapped with a frown.
She swallowed a scream of frustration and whirled back to face the mirrors and there he was, lurking directly behind her. Six feet of ripped bronze shoulders and sinewy biceps were highlighted in all black exercise pants and a tank. Damn it, she didn’t want to be impressed. Or affected. Or have her safe haven intruded upon. Again.
She gripped the barre with her left hand and squeezed. Good thing it was sturdy or she might just crush the wood to dust. She’d pretend it was his smirking face. He’d chased off her sister with his news. Well, it wasn’t his movie and he’d just delivered the message, but the proverb about shooting the messenger didn’t exist for nothing.
How was she going to immerse herself in the music and the movement with him breathing down her neck? Was this man going to single-handedly ruin her life?
Her body automatically obeyed the teacher’s commands, plié, tendu, degage. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood at high alert, and her eyes kept darting to the powerful limbs moving in perfect synchronization behind her. Instead of measuring her own alignment in the mirror, her gaze was drawn to the perfect shadow behind her, every sweep of his arm performed with flawless precision. She shook her head to stop her surreptitious or not so surreptitious staring.
He represented everything she hated about people from Hollywood. Cocky, too good-looking—well, she wasn’t blind, was she? Damn Holt Ericsson. Focus on the ron de jambe, girl.
She angled her body and Holt intruded into her peripheral vision. As if she’d been able to ignore him from her current spot. Inhale and exhale. She absolutely was not distracted by his cat-like grace.
Much too close to her.
She peeked from under her lashes. Surprise registered when his leg sweep extended almost as far as hers. Impressive flexibility. Most men couldn’t come close to that level of suppleness, especially the athletic muscular ones. His golden head was turned away from her, so she gave him the side eye for another millisecond. His long, sleekly muscled arm stretched overhead and a light film of perspiration gleamed on his skin. Okay, he might be an arrogant L.A. boy, but he was flawless.
A pity he would most likely open his mouth again.
Abruptly, he turned his head and snared her gaze. Busted. When his sculpted lips quirked into a knowing smile, she cursed his ego. With a huff, she whipped her head to face the mirror.
Holt struggled to maintain steady breathing, but his usual self-control was failing him. Had Angela sent him to this ballet studio on purpose? What was she trying to pull?
The last seven minutes and sixteen seconds had been exquisite torture, standing directly behind Sam. In a modest black leotard, pink tights, and innocent pink ballet slippers, she no longer resembled the bony, persnickety hooligan from the ranch.
No, now she looked elegant.
Graceful.
Powerful.
In the bright lights of the studio, her abundant auburn hair shimmered like polished bronze. Her traditional dancer’s bun revealed the milky pale skin at the nape of her neck, usually obscured by her hat or heavy braid. He caught himself before he leaned forward and kissed it.
When she’d turned to the side, her profile transformed into one of the old-fashioned cameos his mother collected. A blue vein ran from her smooth forehead to the top of her high cheekbone, revealing a hint of vulnerability in what he’d believed was an impenetrable fortress.
He’d been wrong.
She was just as beautiful as her twin sister.
He glimpsed the calluses on one small palm, evidence of the work she performed each day. Not the manicured hands of a spoiled girl, but a serious woman. His entire body stiffened when he contemplated those palms sliding over his skin.
How long was this class again? He’d never survive.
Her sinuous, mesmerizing dancing revealed another layer to Ms. Samantha McNeill. Underneath the tough shell lived an artist, a true ballerina. He came to ballet to work on agility and control, but she became one with the music, like he did when he played his guitar. Accustomed to working with and observing performers, he recognized her connection to the dance, even from the warm-up exercises. Sam wasn’t just a horsewoman; she channeled the emotion of the dance from inside out.
Un-frickin’ believable.
She smelled like heaven and the beads of perspiration along her upper shoulders beckoned. How would she taste? Sweet, like she looked now or tart, how she acted the remaining ninety-nine percent of the time? The yearning to stroke her rosy porcelain skin surged through him––would the flush spread to the rest of her skin when she was aroused?
“Mr. Ericsson. Attention.” Cecile snapped.
He jolted. Busted. He glanced around to see what the rest of the class was doing and caught Sam’s smirk. Now that expression he recognized. Somehow her attitude now seemed endearing instead of annoying. Yes, he’d been too quick to judge her. He would apologize.
When class ended, Holt wiped the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck. The punishing pace suited him and he understood why Sam came to this studio. He’d have to return while he was in town.
“So, if someone had told me a guy like you would go to ballet, well, I would have laughed. You’re full of surprises.” Sam angled her head toward him as she slung her damp towel over her gorgeous shoulders.
He didn’t detect a note of sarcasm from her, simply curiosity. “So you’ve got me figured out? Yeah, yeah, I know it might seem unexpected, but my ego can handle the jokes. I found it a few years back to help with the agility and control I need for certain types of stunts.”
“Makes sense. You don’t usually see the big macho guys in ballet.” A hint of humor threaded her tone. They walked together toward the small entryway of the studio where the locker rooms were located.
“Big and macho? I’ll have you know almost half of the NFL teams send their guys to ballet.” Why didn’t everyone know this?
“Defensive much? I’ve never seen one here, but you did okay. For a guy.” Her rosy lips curved up.
“Wow, a compliment?” He pressed one hand over his chest. “I’m flattered.”
“Seriously. You were legit. I’ve got to respect that. Do all stuntmen do ballet?” Her cheeks were as pink as her lips a
nd with the soft smile on her face; he couldn’t fathom how he’d ever missed how sexy she was.
“No idea. Some, I guess.” He shrugged. “We aren’t exactly a fraternity. But you’re a ballerina. Do you perform?”
Her smile evaporated and she froze. “I’m not a ballerina.”
“Of course you are. I know a performer when I see one.” Huh. Interesting reaction.
She bit her plump lower lip and shook her head. “Well, I used to dance when I was a kid. Now I just come to stay flexible. It helps me with the horses.”
They stopped in front of the locker rooms.
“Why’d you stop?” What wasn’t she saying? Emotion simmered beneath the surface. An urgent need to know gripped him.
She froze again. Abruptly pivoted and ignored the question. “I need to grab my stuff. Are you headed back to the ranch?”
“Yeah.” He exhaled.
“I’ll show you a shortcut. Locals only. I’m in the back parking spot, so give me a second and when you see my car pull up, follow me.” She turned and strode away.
No longer the ballerina, she’d morphed back to the bossy tomboy. How many layers were there? The ranch it was. Curiosity piqued, he climbed into his truck and turned the key. Samantha was out of her mind if she believed this was the end of the discussion.
He hit the accelerator and caught up to her.
9
Sam gripped the steering wheel, willing the tingles in her belly to settle. Was he hot and bothered from ballet class too? Mr. Too Hot Hollywood threw her off balance with his insightful comments and his perfect physique. His unexpected perceptiveness about her dancing troubled her. Only her family knew of her passion for dance and how difficult returning to a studio had been after she’d hung up her toe shoes.