by Linda Cajio
“Okay! Ready!” Libby yelled, bringing everyone back into focus.
The torture went directly to its last stages, when Richard was duly rescued by some of the settlers and carried out of the camera’s view. Libby yelled “Cut” again.
Richard was unceremoniously dumped onto the ground and helped up by his dumpers, all of them laughing. Even Richard, the solemn man of a week ago, was smiling indulgently, as if to encourage their fun. She realized that he had good people skills, not dominating through demands or intimidation, but through recognizing the rites of passage a group of people working together required. It was rather like the classroom, where a teacher had to allow a certain amount of freedom or the children would clam up and be lost to her.
She realized then that Richard Creighton was already lost to her. He was from a world so entirely different from her own that there would never be any common ground between them. He might be a shy man, but this world was what he wanted. And it was not what she wanted.
Pen took a deep, painful breath, turned, and walked away.
FOUR
It took Richard several days to realize that Pen was evading him on the set. He watched her now, videotaping the best boy and grip as they explained their jobs with the set’s electricals. She’d taped just about every member of the crew, including the caterer, but she hadn’t taped him again.
He wondered if he was paranoid, or worse, having prima-donna-itis. He resented her paying attention to others. But why was she avoiding him? She tended to sit or stand by Libby or way off to the side of the filming area during breaks. If he was in one area, she always seemed to be in another. He’d joined her conversations with others several times, something he hated doing, never being quite sure of his reception. When the conversations faded naturally, she would excuse herself. He’d taken a while to catch on, but now he had.
He frowned as he turned away and tried to focus on his upcoming scene. What had he done to offend her? It was a question he’d asked himself over and over again. He thought he could pinpoint when it had happened. One moment they were kissing each other as if they were the only man and woman left on the earth, and the next moment she’d vanished. Right after that torture scene, in fact. But he couldn’t pinpoint why. Maybe she’d been satisfied by that one kiss. Maybe she’d discovered too much about the real him.
He swung his gaze back to her and knew the real him wasn’t so bad. He’d found people on this set, as on others in the past, liked him when he met them halfway. He’d even taken to not going off on his own during breaks but just hanging around, watching, although that was leading to another problem—Pen. Right now she was his concern. The easiest path he could take would be to let her go. But he knew he couldn’t. Whatever it was that had frightened her off, he intended to find out. He picked up his ever-present rifle and started to walk toward her.
“Richard!” Libby called out. “We’re ready for you.”
Richard cursed under his breath at the bad timing, spun around, and went off to do his scene. He hated to delay dealing with the problem with Pen.
That evening he was on her doorstep. She’d disappeared again while he was filming. Angry and determined to have an honest confrontation, he knocked sharply on her door.
But the moment she opened it and a stricken look appeared in her eyes, he sensed that clearing the air would result in disaster.
“Hi,” he said cheerfully, trying not to react to the allure of the flowing garment she wore. Although the cool material was voluminous, it somehow managed to reveal her curves in a softly enticing manner. One thing the outfit told him was that she hadn’t been expecting company.
“Hi,” she responded warily. “What are you doing here?”
The question was an ego deflator if he’d ever heard one. He grimaced, then forced a grin and said, “I thought I’d take you to dinner if you were free.”
“Uh … well … I … uh … I’m making my own dinner. I mean, it’s on the stove right now.”
Bob Newhart didn’t stammer nearly as well, Richard thought in disgust. Normally he would walk away at this point, but he sensed her evasion was a form of protection, not reluctance. The notion buoyed him, and he asked, “Got enough for two? I’m sick of barbecued hot dogs.”
A chuckle escaped her. “Is that what you’re eating up there? I had these visions of you catching and cooking Bugs Bunny or Bambi.”
“Are you kidding? I’d starve to death.” He smiled back. “So will you take pity on a poor starving actor and invite him in to share your dinner?”
A myriad of expressions crossed her face, all of them telling. At least they told him he had put her on the horns of a dilemma. Part of him wanted to say forget it and walk away, but he was determined to hold his ground. If he got in, maybe he could get her to talk, and if she did, he might find out what was wrong.
The irony of him, the loner who revealed nothing of his feelings, now wanting to find a way to get another human being, a woman no less, to reveal hers, rose to the surface. He grinned. Maybe it was Ezekiel, that frontier tell-it-like-it-is guy, who was still at work.
“I’m not really dressed for company,” she began.
“You look fine to me.” And she did. He added for good measure, “And proper, too, if you’re worrying about that.”
He didn’t say proper for what, and he wasn’t about to.
“It’s just soup and grilled cheese.”
“Great!” He smiled broadly. “I’m catered out.”
“Well …” Reluctantly, she opened the door.
“Thanks.” He walked inside her home, feeling like a knight of old who’d found the key to his lady’s chastity belt. A major bridge had definitely been crossed.
Her house was small and neat, done in a country style of wood and plaids, appropriate for the mountain area in which she lived. The walls were decorated in a mix of embroidered and needlepoint work, probably by her own hand. More human touches were evident in the newspapers on the sofa, a book open and turned face down on the coffee table, a glass half filled with what looked like iced tea on the side table. It was a far cry from the expensive and perfect Beverly Hills homes he’d been in, one of which he’d even contemplated buying for himself. And it was better. No wonder Redford and Russell built homes in Wyoming and Montana. This was so warm and comfortable. A small tortoiseshell cat appeared and rubbed against his legs, purring loudly.
“Meet Lolita,” Pen said, smiling as she shut the door behind him. “She’s named for obvious reasons.”
“So I see.” Richard leaned over and stroked the cat’s head. The purring volume went up several notches, so he picked her up. The little cat snuggled into his arms, rubbing her face against his right bicep and immediately endearing herself to him.
Pen reached over and patted her cat, saying, “You’re a sex kitten if there ever was one.”
Her eyes went wide and she pulled her hand away, clearly annoyed with herself for mentioning sex, even in such an innocent way. Richard chose to ignore the remark, though he burned to follow up on it. So talk of sex might bother her. Maybe she didn’t want him around because she was attracted to him. Wishful thinking, he thought … but he thought it anyway.
“I like your house,” he said as they walked through the living/dining area to the kitchen.
She looked over her shoulder. “You’re kidding.”
“Why would I kid?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’ve been in Hollywood homes, and mine’s just an everyman house.”
“Or everywoman. You forget, I grew up in houses like this.” “Houses” was the key word, he thought, remembering all the moves his family had made because of his father’s engineering jobs. Not homes, not quite. Maybe he was lonely too long, like the song, and that was why he was getting domestically philosophical. His cure was within that sensuously flowing robe right in front of him. Whether a relationship with Pen would be short-term or long, only time would tell. In the meantime he’d admire the view. A few moments later
he discovered one disadvantage to Pen’s house. The walking distance to the kitchen was far too short.
Dinner was what Pen promised, although she dressed it up with a salad and fruit for dessert. She was awkward at first, and Richard found himself having to draw her out, a reverse from his usual manner. By the end of the meal, as they sat at the table dawdling over the last of dessert, she was relaxed with him again, the Pen he’d already come to know.
“I have miles of videotape,” she told him, with a wry grin. “It’s amazing what you can get in a week’s time. And it’s all a mishmash.”
He chuckled. “I’m not surprised. You were having too much fun.”
She was leaning forward slightly in her chair, and the cover-up gaped at the bodice, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage.
She sighed, the view momentarily even more enticing. “But what I needed to do was put all the camera crew on one tape, the electrical people on another, the scenery people together, the makeup people, the actors. That way I could have done a class period on special effects or acting or background. Instead, I’ve got Libby on with the best boy, and you followed by a stunt coordinator, each of you talking about something unrelated to the other. I wonder if that poor PR guy would shoot me if I did a complete retaping.”
“He’d probably trash the set,” Richard said.
Lolita put her front paws on his thigh, dangerously close to a sensitive area of his body, and began to knead her paws back and forth. Concern gave way when he realized she was blessedly declawed. His future children were safe from her. Stroking the cat on the shoulders, he continued, “Anyway, our PR guy ought to be happy. I agreed to do an interview for him.”
“Which you hate,” she said.
“Does it show?”
She nodded. “The look of disgust on your face was a dead giveaway. Why do you hate to do them?”
“It invades my privacy. They ask the same silly questions over and over again, or ask about things that have no bearing on the movie in question or filmmaking in general. Why can’t I just do my work and go home?” He waved a hand, even though she never made a comment. “I know, I know. We have to create excitement, get people interested in the film, let them know it’s going to be out there, when and what it’s about, and even give them some tidbits that make them feel like insiders on the production.”
“Boy, I could make a fortune with my videotapes, couldn’t I?”
He chuckled. “Probably.” Feeling that she’d warmed up to him, Richard got to his real mission. “Why have you been avoiding me on the set?”
“I have?”
“Pen.” He shook his head. “You’re going to have to give a better performance of innocence than that. I’m an actor, and I learned my craft in England at Gielgud’s knee.”
He had gone to England with the idea of training as a Shakespearian actor. But coming under the eye of Sir John was what put him on this road.
“Did anybody ever tell you name-dropping is bad form?” she asked, making a face at him.
“Yes, but I never pay attention to it. Did I offend you in some way last week? If I have, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
“No,” she said, looking stricken. “I’m sorry, Richard, that you even had that impression.”
“Then what is the problem?”
She looked everywhere but at his face.
“Pen.”
“Okay.” She fiddled with her paper napkin a few seconds longer, than took a deep breath. “I’ve … I’ve become a fan. There’s obviously no future in becoming a Richard Creighton hanger-on. You’ll be gone in a few weeks, a couple of months at most, and I’ll still be here.” She shrugged. “So it seemed best to me that I start now to avoid a mistake in the making.”
The blood buzzed in his ears at the thought of her as a screaming fan who wanted to throw herself at him. Not Pen. She was too sane and sensible. He already knew that. But what she had done was to tell him any relationship between them was out of the question because it would be of short duration—exactly the type of relationship he didn’t want to have with her. She had touched something in him that he wanted to explore thoroughly before he could let it go.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can’t accept that.”
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. She straightened up in her chair. “What do you mean, you can’t accept that?”
He didn’t know what to say to not have the conversation blow up in his face. How Cary Grant would handle it came to mind, so he spelled, “I c-a-n-t a-c-c-e-p-t t-h-a-t.”
“I can spell.”
“So what part of it didn’t you get?” he asked, grinning.
“If you were eight, I’d have sent you to the principal’s office for that,” she said, eyeing him sternly.
“Good thing I’m thirty-four.” He was liking this verbal flirting. “Does this mean I get a spanking instead? Please say yes.”
“I’m not kinky that way.”
“Then what way are you kinky?”
“Very funny, but I saw ‘Moonlighting.’ ” Pen stood up and gathered the plates. “You’re no Bruce Willis, Richard. I think I’ll do the dishes.”
Richard chuckled. He knew a surrender flag going up when he saw it.
Pen and Richard sat on her tiny back patio, screened from prying eyes by a rose trellis. She should have gotten rid of him directly after dinner, but he’d suggested one more iced tea. One. And she had thought it better to be nice than bitchy, for Libby’s sake. Sure. Honesty made her admit she loved his company. But she had told him enough of how he made her feel without revealing even more of her emotional vulnerability. She was determined to steer clear of dangerous waters, but couldn’t entirely stem her curiosity about him.
“So what was it like, studying in England?” she asked.
“It was terrific,” he replied. “Good for an actor. Have you been there?”
“Yes, for a ten-day vacation.” She smiled, remembering. “I loved it, although I felt as if I’d gone back to the sixties. I don’t know what reminded me of that.”
“It’s a slower and more innocent lifestyle.” He grinned. “You should go from there directly to Los Angeles. You feel you’ve stepped onto another planet.”
“I’ll bet.”
She could feel awareness stirring her blood. From the moment she’d opened her front door to discover him on her threshold, she had felt shaky. Her desire for him had been growing steadily since. She couldn’t look at his face without studying the lines that were arrestingly sharp now and would be handsomely craggy in twenty years. She couldn’t look at his upper body without noting the wide shoulders. She couldn’t look at his arms without wanting to touch the well-defined muscles and the dusting of dark hairs. And she couldn’t look at his hands without wondering what they’d do to her body with their touch.
He reached over and took her hand. Pen froze even as his strong, warm fingers entwined with her own. The heat of him gave her a momentary jolt. She took a deep breath to counteract the sensation. If he was aware of her hesitation, he never showed it. He just held her hand.
“I don’t tell people very much about myself,” he said, shrugging. “It wasn’t easy going from town to town every few years. You gain a friend or two and then you have to leave them.” He turned away. “Sort of like this. But we all need friends.”
Next he’d be asking her to be his neighbor, Pen thought. Mister Rogers had nothing on this guy for making a person aware of her shortcomings. How could she ignore this appeal to be friends?
She couldn’t. The moment he’d said it, she knew she couldn’t. But she didn’t have to be more than friends.
“Of course we all need friends,” she said smoothly, patting his hand. “And that’s what I want to be, Richard. A friend. Not a … fan.”
He turned back to her and frowned, as if he didn’t like the words. Pen smiled brightly at him and squeezed his hand in assurance. Friendly assurance.
In return, Richard leaned across the two arms of the ch
airs and kissed her.
His mouth was hungry yet gentle, and any thought of resistance went right out of Pen’s head. If this was friendship, then she wanted more. She gripped his arms to anchor herself, marveling at the feel of the long, ropy muscles beneath her fingers. He was all lean strength, just enough. Just right.
Her senses had been spinning long before the kiss deepened. Richard’s fingers threaded through her hair, the pressure soft yet demanding, his palm cupping her chin. The touch was almost too much to bear, and her blood turned thick and hot in her veins, pulsing deeply through her system. The kiss went on and on until she was moaning in the back of her throat and practically clinging to him. His hand curved around her breast, his palm pressed across her nipple.
Need rocked through her, and she couldn’t stand it any longer. She pressed herself to him, his chest a solid wall that satisfied her and left her yearning for more at the same time. Both his hands found her breasts, the caresses going on and on, driving her higher and higher. She had wanted this so much and yet thought she would scream with frustration because she wanted so much more. His fingers continually grazed the hardened points of her nipples, while her fingers fluttered over his shoulders, clenching and unclenching.
Suddenly he pulled himself away and shot out of the chair. “I … I have to go now.”
“Wha …?” Pen blinked at him in bewilderment, her head spinning.
“I have to go.” He looked everywhere but at her. “Thanks for dinner.”
She realized her arms were still curved in an empty embrace and dropped them into her lap, mortified at the telltale giveaway and confused over what had happened. “Richard—”
“I have to go before … we need to be sure about this.” He disappeared back into her house without waiting for her to escort him. Before she could gather her wits and move, she heard her front door open and close.