by Lara Archer
Not something she should be thinking about right now.
Hastily, she broke the eye contact and looked sideways instead, at the world beyond the edges of the tarp. It was an eerie fog of white as far as she could see, with balls of ice bouncing and piling up like snow, and torn leaves and snapped twigs sailing by in the hard wind.
It was strange and fascinating in a way, surreally beautiful—and an almost-effective distraction from the magnetic tug of Nick’s body.
Had she always been so sensitive to the details of the physical world, or had Nick brought that out in her, with his extraordinary eye for visual detail? The first scripts she’d tried to write back in college were all about the words, until she started to work with him. Now the films they made together were known for their visual intensity. She saw the world differently, because of him. Their artistic vision was a synergy—their minds working together.
It truly was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
But what if they couldn’t make things work out now? What if this was the last film they’d make together?
Her heart ached at the thought.
She felt the warmth of Nick’s breathing as he crouched above her. The world under the tarp seemed close and small and quiet, the yellow of their ponchos making a soft golden glow, almost like firelight. Despite the onslaught of the hail and the ache in her muscles, their little corner of the planet felt...snug.
She didn’t want it to end. It felt safe, and right.
And it was probably a good thing Nick was busy holding up the backpack, because she was sorely tempted all of a sudden to reach up and pull him down on top of her, and try to kiss him into seeing how right it was for them to be together.
But that would be a mistake, of course. It would be pushing him too hard, when clearly something deep inside him feared the intensity of what happened any time they touched. Not to mention that pulling him down would make her lose the tarp and him drop the pack, and they’d both probably end up getting clonked in the head by ice.
So she kept her hands off him, just let her breathing fall into rhythm with his. She wasn’t sure how many minutes they held still, but gradually, the clattering of the hail shifted to a softer splashing, and the ice gave way to rain again.
“I think we’re clear,” said Nick at last. With a groan, he shifted his shoulders and the pack slid off, taking the tarp down with it, and he fell forward slightly, his palms striking the ground as he caught himself.
Which meant, of course, that his hands were on either side of her hips and his body was between her thighs, his chest inches from hers. For an instant their eyes met again, an electric shock, and in the space of a breath, the world went from snug to swelteringly hot.
All she wanted was to twine her arms around his neck and pull his mouth against hers. And his gaze swept down to her lips, his body tensing, as if he wanted exactly the same thing.
But Nick was apparently made of sterner stuff than she was—he tore his attention from her face, drew his body back, and rolled to an innocent sitting position next to her. Only a slight rhythm change in his breathing testified to how close he’d come to succumbing once more.
“Well, that was fun,” he said, in an overly jocular tone, kicking his heels against a spit of rock to knock the ice off his boot soles.
Not to be outdone in the cavalier attitude department, Amber wrapped her arms around her knees and stretched her spine, trying to uncramp her aching shoulders and back. “I wish I’d gotten some of that on film. Wouldn’t it be amazing to shoot a scene in a hailstorm?”
“Not if you wanted to have working cameras afterward. Save up for some CGI for your budget next time.”
“If there is a next time.” She flinched a little when she realized what she’d just said. She hadn’t meant to say it, though the thought had been running in a constant loop in the back of her brain.
Nick turned his head away from her, shuttering himself off.
He must be coming to the same conclusion she was—that it was going to be much harder than either of them had first realized to put the pieces of their relationship back together, if the two of them wanted such very different things, and if they couldn’t control their physical reaction to each other.
He got to his feet again, quickly, hoisting the pack. “Let’s hope Ruby found some shelter from that hailstorm,” he said gruffly. “If she didn’t, we need to find her fast. And who the hell knows where she went.”
Amber stood, too, brushing wet leaves and pine needles from her legs, and trying to brush away the tug of longing as well. “I doubt she even has a clue. She just ran.”
“Donny Lempert said something about cops,” said Nick, his expression darkening. “From the look on her face, it scared the crap out of her.”
A cold feeling went down Amber’s spine that had nothing to do with the ice around them. “She told me yesterday the press learned something. Something bad. From when she was young—ancient history, she said. She didn’t tell me what.”
“Who knows,” said Nick, setting off down the path again. “And who cares. Everyone screws up when they’re young.” His voice had a weight to it that suggested he felt he was speaking from experience. “But the tabloid-buying public doesn’t pay to hear success stories. They want to hear how fucked up the rich and beautiful really are.”
She glanced over at Nick’s face, at the tension in his features, and felt a rush of tenderness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Tabloids suck.”
“Hollywood sucks,” Nick growled. “You’re from the Midwest. You wouldn’t understand.” He shook his head in frustration. “I wish we’d find Lempert out here—we could arrange a little accident for him. A nice ‘lightning strike.’”
“Might be hard to make that look convincing. How about we just push him in a creek?”
“Excellent idea. Little cockroach like that, I bet he can’t swim.”
“Though that could get us brought up on charges for dumping toxic waste. I’m sure the EPA frowns on tabloid reporters in the water supply.”
“True,” said Nick, smiling wryly. “Then how about we just find Ruby before he does?”
“Deal,” said Amber.
They trudged down the hill slowly, skidding on the coating of ice, clinging to one another for balance. Amber tried not to pay attention to the strength of Nick’s forearms under her fingers or the occasional brush of his thigh muscles against hers.
At least the rain was falling much more softly now, the energy of the storm apparently having been dissipated by the fury of the hail. Just as Ranger Donnell had warned them, though, the temperature had chilled dramatically, blotting out the memory of early summer heat.
Without proper clothes or shelter, Ruby was going to be in bad shape soon.
It didn’t help that Nick’s mood was clearly chilling as quickly as the air. Even with his hand still in hers, he seemed to have drawn up tight within himself, every muscle tense, hiding his face beneath the hood of his rain poncho. She knew perfectly well what he was thinking, though—the more he thought about the tabloid reporters, and Los Angeles, and what kind of person he thought he was, the more he was beating himself up inside.
And she wanted to grab him and shake him.
Whenever Nick mentioned L.A., it sounded like he was talking about the sixth circle of hell. Cheap, plastic, soulless, he always said—it was hard to imagine someone like him growing up there. She’d met his mom a few times, and could hardly believe Nick actually sprung from her leopard-print-mini-skirted loins.
For Nick’s birthday one year, the three of them had dinner at some hip L.A. hot-spot his mother recommended, and within the first half hour, the woman downed three mojitos, then wandered to another table to flirt with a TV producer she knew. She came back eventually, but only to give Nick a giggly, sloppy goodbye kiss on the cheek, slur her way through a “I’m really sorry, Nicky,” and go stumbling out the door with the producer’s hand on her ass. The cake Amber had ordered hadn’t even arrived
at the table yet.
And Nick was the one who apologized afterwards, over and over, to Amber. When a bouquet the size of a Mini Cooper arrived in Nick’s hotel room the next morning—no doubt charged to the TV producer’s tab—he didn’t bother reading the card, he just put the flowers out in the hall for the housekeeping ladies.
As for Nick’s dad, Amber never even met him. The one time she’d suggested setting up a lunch, Nick glared at her like she’d suggested swimming in a sewage treatment pool.
Okay, so his parents were a mess.
But did Nick really think his roots doomed him to be as stunted as his parents were? Couldn’t he see how different he was from the typical Hollywood type?
Aside from cutting a swath through crowds of gorgeous women, of course.
Lord, even then, if the way he treated her in bed was any indication, Nick was anything but a selfish bastard when it came to sex. When she thought of the tenderness with which he’d pleasured her last night, the sensitivity to her needs, the selfless refusal to rush to his own satisfaction, she melted inside.
Nick did care. He did know how to give. And he had a good heart, even if he wouldn’t let himself believe he did.
It fit, really, with everything she’d always known about him. She saw so much, making films with him over the years. The thoughtful way he saw the world, the care he took when he filmed their actors, finding just the right angle, just the right light to capture the most subtle emotions in their faces and their bodies—all that was as much a part of him as breathing.
He had far more depth and sensitivity than most men she knew.
Why couldn’t he trust himself?
She gave him a sidelong glance now, mentally urging him to look at her. “I don’t want to shock you or anything, Nicky,” she said, “but I think the tabloid press might not be the best reflection of...you know, actual reality.”
He shrugged. “It’s real enough. L.A. real. We get the media we deserve.”
“You think Ruby deserves what Donny Lempert’s doing to her?”
He shot her a sour look. “Of course not.”
“Because she’s a decent person now, right? Even if maybe she screwed up in the past?”
“Yes. Obviously.” The words were clipped and curt.
Amber pressed on earnestly. “Because she’s not stuck as whatever she was when she was a teenager, right? She gets to grow and change?”
“Obviously.” For a man wearing a ridiculous DayGlo yellow rubber poncho, he was hitting the sarcastic tone pretty hard.
“So Ruby Torres gets a pass? She’s not doomed by association with Hollywood?”
“Yeah. She’s from Northern California, though, remember? They’re born with souls up there.”
“Oh,” said Amber. “So when you talk about L.A. being a complete moral post-apocalyptic wasteland where the people are born soulless, you actually mean...you.”
He hesitated for just a second, but then he nodded. “Yes, I mean me.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Nick—look at yourself. Look at you out here, in the middle of a storm, walking out on a cliff where you’re lucky you didn’t get hit by lightning, trying to save a woman you barely even know. For someone who claims not to have a functioning human heart, you’re the most loyal person I know.”
“Me?” he protested. “There are stray dogs living under freeway bypasses who are more loyal than me. You know my history with wom—”
“When it counts, Nick,” she insisted. “You’re loyal when it counts.”
“When it counts? Jesus, Amber, either you’re loyal, or you’re not. It’s one of those black and white things, no shades of gray.”
She jerked him to a stop and clapped her free palm to his chest, just over his heart. “You keep talking about being wired wrong, about being broken in here. But I know you’re not broken. I know.”
Nick gave her an ugly look, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Well—you’re wrong.”
“I’m not—”
“Stop, Amber!” he said, sharply, dropping her hand. “Just stop. Okay? You can’t fix me. Just give it up already. I know what I am.”
He stormed ahead of her down the trail, the pack bouncing violently against his spine.
“Nick!” she yelled. “Oh, for pity’s sake, come back!” She quickened her pace to try to catch up with him, her soles sliding on the layer of hail still glistening on the trail.
And that was a mistake.
The next thing she knew, her feet went out from under her.
She felt herself go sideways, flailing, and then she fell hard. Her elbow smacked against a fallen pine branch, and her hip struck a knob of rock jutting up through the ice. Gobs of half-melted hail and pine needles and brown leaves flew up in a puff around her.
At the sound of her sudden squeal, and then her groan of pain, Nick whirled.
“Shit!” he said, hurrying back and kneeling down beside her, dropping the pack. He stretched his hands out over her legs, as if deciding whether or not to touch her. “Are you hurt?”
She did a quick internal inventory—pants legs soaked and muddy, hip and elbow and left wrist aching badly, brain a little rattled, knees and shoulders tangled awkwardly in the rubber of her poncho, which seemed to have twisted around her boa-constrictor style.
No stabbing pains, though. She tried a tentative wriggle, and nothing seemed to collapse or pop or throb any worse. No breaks or sprains, then, just bruises. Including a big one to her pride.
“Did you hurt anything?” Nick asked again, gingerly pressing his fingers to her shoulder, and pulling back the hood of her poncho so he could see her face. “Is your head okay?”
“Yeah,” she said. She managed to bend the elbow she’d landed on, and use that hand to push up to something close to a half-sitting position. “My head’s fine. I just banged myself up a little along the side.”
She fought against the tangle of the poncho, trying to get her weight off her hip.
Nick slid his hand under her arm, supporting her ribcage, but not lifting her further. “Maybe you shouldn’t try to get up yet. Just wait a minute—make sure your spine’s really okay before you move. Sometimes you can’t tell right away.”
“My spine is spectacular,” she said. “But the ground’s soaking wet.” She tried wriggling again, but more of the poncho was trapped beneath her than she’d first realized, pinning the rest of her down. With her legs and her right arm wrapped up tight, she felt like a big, wet, rubbery, slightly bruised caterpillar. “Please, Nicky, just help me get up.”
“We’ll compromise,” he said, and lifted her just slightly, then sat on the ground himself and slid her gently into his lap. “Sit there for a minute. You’ll stay dry, and I can be sure you’re not hurt worse than you think.”
She wasn’t hurt, but the temptation to curl up with Nick was too powerful to resist. She laid her head against his chest—though instead of his delicious skin, her cheek touched rain-slicked rubber, cold and slippery as a fish. But Nick’s hand slipped under her poncho, rubbing her back, strong and warm.
“Oh, cowboy,” she sighed. “Why are we such a mess?”
Nick’s mouth brushed against her hair. “You’re not a mess,” he said, his voice gentle again, rumbling against her ear. “I’m the mess.” The hand on her back kept stroking, stroking.
She tried to nuzzle closer to his throat, where she could catch the warm, comforting scent coming off of him, from the heat trapped beneath his poncho.
Even wet and sore and cold and tired, it felt so good to be held by him. Damn it, he could be so sweet. It was so easy to be with him like this. And the sex between them was certainly fabulous. Lord, it still made her catch her breath to think of how he’d made her come last night, with his tongue and his fingers, taking all the time in the world to build her up and take her over that spectacular edge. And at the end, she was going down on him, and he’d been so close to coming in her mouth—an opportunity any other man she’d heard her friends talk about would have ta
ken gladly—he’d wanted her to come back up so he could kiss her, and hold her, and look her in the eye, so he could be inside her and they could come together.
The way he’d spoken her name, then—it was like he was speaking a sacred liturgy, a holy word. She didn’t think she’d misread the powerful emotion in his voice. But she hadn’t misread his fear, either. Both the passion and the fear were real.
As he held her now, his breathing was deepening—she could hear it against her ear, and feel it in the greater rise and fall of his chest beneath hers. His stroking hand had moved to her waist, lifting the hem of her skirt, brushing along the curve of her skin there, the touch growing firmer, more possessive.
Did he feel his blood heat like hers was heating? She felt sure he did. She pressed her forehead into the curve of his throat, and it almost seemed as if the pulse of his blood, the beat of his heart, quickening along with hers.
And, yes, where her thigh pressed into his lap, she could feel him hardening. He wanted her, even if he didn’t want to want her.
Should she turn her head up just a little further, brush her lips against his jaw, bring them to his mouth? He’d kiss her back if she did, she knew. It wouldn’t matter about the rain, or the hail on the ground around them, or the need to find Jake and Ruby, or anything either of them had said about last night being the last time.
It would happen, everything would happen, because neither one of them seemed to know how to stop it once it started.
But Nick let out a sigh, then—the sort of sigh a person made when they were trying desperately to deny themselves something they wanted. A determined sigh. And he shifted her in his lap subtly to make the contact between them a bit less intimate.
And so she let out a sigh of her own. A sigh of resignation.
“Hey,” Nick murmured suddenly. “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course,” she said.
“It doesn’t change anything, okay? But I just—I want you to know the truth. It’s important to me, for you to know.” He drew in a deep, steadying breath, and for a moment the hand on her waist stilled. “About me and Ruby.”