by Edie Harris
She held out the phone when finished. “There. For makeup emergencies.”
He took it, pocketed it. Wanted to call her right this second to verify that the number she’d given him was a number at which her soft, clear-toned voice would greet him on the other end. Was it so wrong to want her voice in his ear, in whatever manner he could manage it?
Yeah. Yeah, it was all kinds of unprofessional wrong. Damn it.
Pushing off the wall, she straightened the hem of her skirt, flattening the fabric so it swung perfectly against her thighs. “This doesn’t change anything, you know.”
Damn. It. “I know.”
“We have to work together for the next several weeks.”
“I know.”
Her chest rose and fell in a shaky breath, and he was sadistically pleased to see her rattled. Because of him. Because of what he’d done to her a few minutes earlier.
She was stunning when she came. Fucking stunning.
She shifted toward the door, one step, then another, the click of her strappy heels a quiet echo off the tall brick walls sheltering them from the midnight traffic on the city’s streets. “You shouldn’t…don’t call me, okay?”
The night had cooled considerably now that his heart rate had slowed somewhat, but her tense words sent his blood pressure skyrocketing. “Not gonna promise that, darlin’.” Unless… “Are you upset about what we did?”
Her blush was visible in the shadows, even as her chin lifted defiantly. “I like orgasms as much as the next girl, especially ones I don’t have to give myself.”
“So that’s a ‘no,’ then.”
“I’m not upset.”
“But you don’t want anything like this to happen again.” Her mouth opened, but he cut her off, jaw tight. “With me. You don’t want it to happen again with me.”
Her hand lifted as if reaching for him, then dropped to her side again in a fist. “It’s probably not a good idea.” A frown furrowed her brow, and she gazed up at him, eyes glinting in the weak overhead light. “Even though I wish it was.”
Well, that was something—something Declan could work with. Stepping closer, the lingering scents of sex and jasmine hitting his nostrils, he stroked a loosened tendril of brown hair back from her temple, tucking the curled end behind her ear. His fingers trailed down the delicate angle of her jaw, absorbing the easy heat of her soft skin as awareness tingled through the veins in his forearm, up, up until his entire arm vibrated from this slight touch. “Sex is almost never a good idea.”
She put a hand on his chest, her touch warming him through the cotton of his shirt, and gave a little push. “We are not having sex.” That frown deepened. “We’re not.”
He couldn’t help smiling. “O’ course we’re not.” Maybe not right this minute, but she’d come around. They still had weeks together, morning and night, in the intimacy of that makeup chair. With a little careful coaxing, he thought he stood a fair chance of talking her down from the tower she locked herself in every day at the studio. He’d seen her tonight with her metaphorical hair down.
Not just seen her—felt her. If he lifted his fingers, he could breathe in her scent, imagine angling his shoulders between her knees and taking that scent onto his tongue. Tasting her.
Christ, she’d be sweet.
Tension made his movements jerky, no doubt a result of unsatisfied lust, but he stepped back with an easy grin and gestured toward the door. “You wanna go back inside, maybe dance some more?”
She shook her head. “I have to be up in a few hours for work. I think I’ll grab my purse and head home.” Her gray gaze searched his face for a moment, a fresh blush chasing its way across her cheeks. “What’s the etiquette here? Do I thank you, or what?”
His grin widened as he rocked back on his heels, shoving his hands into his pockets once more. Or what, indeed. “Nah. But you’re welcome.” He was a jackass for liking that he’d flustered her, even more for wanting to fluster her again and again, until the bricks of her tower crumbled down.
He’d already pried free the first brick tonight. He could hold off on another, at least until tomorrow. “You’d better get going, then.”
Her lips twitched. In irritation? “Yes.” She reached for the door. “You’ve got a six a.m. call, you know.”
“You think I should tuck in for the night, too?” he teased, not that he had any intention of hanging around the cantina once she left.
Music spilled into the alley as she opened the door, the muted, percussive thump of the salsa band hitting his ears with sparkling clarity, carrying with it the sounds of chatter and laughter. Fiona paused, framed in the bright light of the empty kitchen, and peered at him over her shoulder. “I’ll…um…see you in the morning.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
As the door swung shut behind her, his smile faded. He’d thrown her by not pushing for sex, he could tell, and it jibed with what her father had said. Guys always like Fi, but she doesn’t seem to like them back. At the time, Declan had thought it was simply Rick’s way of warning him off his attractive, single daughter. But now…
Now it sounded more like Fiona didn’t have any interest in dating, and if her reaction after their steamy mini tryst was anything to go by, she wasn’t exactly comfortable navigating the relationship waters. Not that they had a relationship.
Yet.
He shot the closed door a hard glance, then pulled his phone from his pocket and located the brand-new contact entry for Fiona O’Brien. Before he could think better of it, the text was typed and sent out into the ether, and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
Maybe he wasn’t all that comfortable with relationship stuff either. He risked a peek at the screen, rereading the text it was too late to retrieve.
sweet dreams, Mz O
A wry laugh escaped him. Whether he’d been aiming for clever or flirty, he didn’t know. If he was lucky, maybe she had given him a fake number, and the unknown recipient could ignore this stranger’s stupid text. If he was lucky, Fiona would never know he’d been unable to wait even five minutes after she left the alley to contact her.
The phone vibrated. Incoming text.
Why the hell couldn’t he breathe properly?
6am. Don’t be late.
So. He had her real number, after all.
Knowing he wore a dopey grin, he strolled out of the alley toward the street to hail a taxi. On the journey back to his hotel, he plotted how to tumble down the next brick of Fiona’s tower.
SEVEN
“I don’t like flirty men.”
Fiona’s statement was meant to quell the knowing glint in his too-dark eyes. Just her luck, Declan Murphy appeared to be in fine form today, the smile that tugged on the corners of his firm lips inviting her to join in his apparent good mood.
No one should look this happy at six in the morning. No one.
But here he stood, the two Starbucks cups in his capable hands filling the quiet trailer with the heady aroma of freshly brewed dark roast. He offered one to her. “It’s only coffee, Fiona.”
It most certainly was not only coffee, and he knew it, too. He knew she stared at those hands of his, remembering just how capable they’d been less than six hours ago, strumming her with all the expertise of a rhythmic guitarist riffing along an acoustic’s nylon strings.
She glared at the cup, then at him, then at the hand wrapped casually around the protective cardboard sleeve. “I don’t like presumptuous men, either.”
“Is it presumption to bring a friend some much-needed caffeine after a late night?” Setting one coffee on the makeup counter, he reached out and wrapped those long, strong fingers around her wrist. Her pulse spiked as he pulled her closer, pressing the hot drink into her hand. Gentle pressure urged her fingers to close around it. “A late night that included several margaritas, I might add.”
She couldn’t decide what she hated more: his use of the word “friend” or the delicious scrape of faint calluses over the backs of her knuckles. Hi
s thumb stroked the inside of her wrist, unerringly finding the thump of her pulse, and she hated that most of all. “Thank you,” she said, because saying anything else would reveal the loss of inner balance that had taken root in the wake of the events outside the cantina.
A tug against his hold had him releasing her. “You’re welcome.” Collecting his coffee from the counter, Declan sank into the chair in front of her station. His brown eyes roved over her features, making a quick trip down her body before returning to meet her gaze again. Crinkles radiated out from the corners of those eyes before he sipped his drink, and the sight of them did something funny to her insides.
Why did he have to look so damn pleased with himself?
Her coffee had cooled to a drinkable temperature, and she silently reveled in the perfect spread of warmth through her veins as the bitter brew livened her tired senses. Except it wasn’t as bitter as it should have been. “Is that— Do I taste…caramel?”
“I asked for a pump of caramel, yeah.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Did you put caramel in both coffees?”
The crinkles deepened as he lifted his cup, shielding the smug smile she knew teased his mouth, his cheeks. “Just yours.”
“How did you know that I liked caramel?” She set the coffee on the counter, reluctantly. With the caramel, it went down so smooth, shining ambient light into the dull recesses of her exhausted brain. She wanted to lean her hip against the counter and wrap both hands tight around the heated sides of the to-go cup and bask in the early morning peace that only quality coffee could bring. She wanted to close her eyes and let him watch her enjoy his gift.
Which was not a smart thing to want.
“I guessed.” He tilted his chin, studying her appraisingly. “Your hair’s down.”
It took everything in her not to snag the black elastic from her wrist and twist the heavy fall of shower-damp hair to the top of her head. “I didn’t dry it this morning.” And what did he care, anyway?
As she unfolded the cloth drape, clipping it comfortably around his neck, he watched her in the mirror. “Seems you’re more Irish than you let on. Look at that red.”
Her hair was not red. “It’s brown.” Yes, there were undertones of natural auburn, and yes, she’d spent a few wild months with vibrant red locks a la Mary Jane Watson when she was starting out in Vegas, but her hair was most certainly brown. Medium brown. Boring brown.
That smile lurked again, making her want to pinch him. “Red in certain lighting, then.”
Irritation simmered. “Brown in all lighting, Mr. Murphy.” She moved around him to the counter, snagging an astringent wipe before turning back to quickly clean his face of any lingering oils. She worked efficiently, jaw tight as she held his smooth chin between her thumb and forefinger. “You already shaved.” Her chest tightened uncomfortably. It was the first time he’d taken care of that morning scruff on his own since filming began a week-and-a-half ago.
“I was awake before the alarm went off. Had some time to kill.”
She let go of his chin, tossing the used wipe in the trash beneath the counter. “Is that why I got coffee today?”
“No. I would’ve stopped to get you coffee today even if I’d overslept.”
She glanced up at that. There was a seriousness to his tone she’d never heard before. Even last night, with her knee hooked over his hip and two of his skilled fingers sheathed inside her, his accent had only belied excitement, intensity—not solemnity. But this…this was new. “Because of what happened?” Even she could hear the uncertainty underlying her question, and wanted to kick herself.
Declan was a force of nature, she’d discovered. When he wasn’t suffering from severe jet lag, he possessed boundless energy that he somehow corralled in the makeup chair and loosed on set when the cameras were rolling. She hadn’t expected those lanky limbs to move quite so well on the dance floor at the cantina the night before, but why was she surprised? Any man with his innate enthusiasm for his work would have scads left over for his extracurriculars.
Their charged encounter in the alley was all the proof she needed.
“Are you askin’ if I brought you coffee because you came all over my hand last night?” One heavy black brow quirked in wry humor.
“Shhh!” Her gaze darted around the empty trailer, as if the walls had sprouted ears that would send her boss—or worse, her father—running in to replace her with a more professional artist. One who didn’t desperately want to bang her subject every time she set eyes on him.
Not that Declan shared that worry. With a shake of his head, he took another healthy sip of his beverage before leaning forward to set it on the counter, carefully out of the way of her kit and tools. “I told you, it’s just coffee.” Leaning back in the chair again, he settled his heels on the foot bar, knees pointed outward, leaving plenty of space between his lean thighs.
She swallowed as her gaze traced the vee of his spread legs. He was so tempting, big and relaxed and very, very male in her chair, in his well-worn jeans and plaid shirt.
God. Given half a chance, she’d bang that harder than a screen door in a tornado.
But only if that half a chance happened off the studio grounds. “Fine. Just coffee, then.” Oddly, saying those words deflated her, and she returned her attention to her work. Squaring her shoulders, she grabbed a brush and the concealer pot and set about painting the red bumps his shaving had raised.
As the irritated skin along his jawline disappeared under her brush, she breathed in the clean scents of dandruff shampoo and simple deodorant, which caused the same sort of warm lethargy to slither through her system as had the coffee. The quiet between them was more comfortable than ever before, yet her awareness of him grew until the weight of it knotted the muscles at her nape.
He’d made her come, harder than she had in years. And with only one hand. What could he have done with both hands?
Her back teeth snapped shut as she scowled at the makeup brush, gripped with white-knuckled fingers.
“Still think your hair’s red.”
“And I think you’re probably color-blind,” she retorted. Depositing the brush and concealer on the towel draped across the countertop, she snatched up a pair of hair clips to pin the silky black curls off his forehead.
He chuckled, a rich, masculine sound that chased along her nerve endings, leaving a not-unpleasant chill in its wake. “You’re a bit more perverse than usual this morning. Hard night?”
The sound that escaped her throat could only be described as a growl, eliciting another goosebump-inducing chuckle from the cheerful Irishman. Determined to wrangle her reaction to him, she fell silent and began gathering the items she needed to apply his scar. The adhesive had dried by the time Declan had arrived in the trailer with that damned coffee, so she was able to place the prosthetic onto fresh transfer paper and trim away the excess in no time at all.
Declan had no interest in silence, however. “Why don’t you wear outfits like last night’s more often?” She could feel his eyes on her, stroking over the curves hidden beneath the oversized men’s shirt she’d blindly yanked from her closet this morning. “That skirt was…pretty.”
It was more than pretty, as they both knew. “What I wear to work is my business.” She peeled off the transfer’s plastic top sheet, refusing to reward him with her glare.
“O’ course it is,” he responded smoothly, his accented voice as decadent to her senses as the caramel in her coffee. “You already know you’re lovely in any clothes you put on.”
Oh, please. “Is this another attempt at charm?”
“Yes. How’m I doin’?”
She stepped between his thighs, ignoring the sense of rightness—so similar to what she’d experienced last night, when he’d caged her against that brick wall and aligned the length of his hard body with hers—and smacked the silicone transfer down across his forehead, none too gently. “I don’t know, Mr. Murphy. Have my pants magically disappeared?”
; He tried to move his head, to peer at her lower body, but her hand on his forehead kept him in place. “No?” he guessed.
“No,” she confirmed, unable to keep her lips from twitching with suppressed humor. “So tell me, how do you think you’re doing?” She dampened the back of the transfer with the moistener she grabbed from the counter behind her, far more careful with the application now that the fake scar started to adhere to his skin.
“But what if I’m not tryin’ to get in your pants?”
He was looking directly at her breasts. Hell, she could feel that stare, those deep brown irises caressing her until her nipples hardened against the satin cups of her bra. Thank God the blue cotton shirt bagged away from her body, hiding the arousing effect his close attention had on her.
When she didn’t bother to answer him—because, though she might be going stupid over him, she was far from oblivious—he huffed out a self-deprecating sigh. A furtive glance down showed his hands bunching into tight fists on the arms of the chair.
Good. He should be struggling to keep his hands to himself. The possession in his touch… First on the dance floor while the salsa band blasted pulse-pumping rhythm in their ears, then in the sudden quiet of the alleyway when they’d escaped the cantina—every brush of Declan’s fingertips along her waist, her hip, her thigh had stamped her with a claim she couldn’t shake even now, with all her barriers in place.
“Fiona.”
She didn’t trust the coaxing note she heard in her name, and held her tongue as she slowly lifted the transfer backing away from his fair skin. The scar stayed cleanly in place.
“What if I’m not just tryin’ to get into your pants?” He paused. “Which, by the way, is what we call underwear on my side of the Atlantic.”