by Lori Foster
He was talking before he could stop himself. “You’re a different breed, Fi. You know that?”
She drew away from him, her ever-present smile fooling him into thinking she was taking this lightly.
“That’s what my daddy always told me,” she said.
“What else did your daddy tell you?” His voice had lowered, too, enough so the scrape of an apple tree branch against the windowpane moaned through the room.
“He said I’d grow up to be anything I wanted to be.” That filmy sheen of emotion misted her eyes. “Even now I make phone calls back to Iowa—yeah, Corncob, Iowa, if you can believe that—once a week. I talk to my brothers a lot, too. I was lucky to have them growing up. They tried to make up for my mom being gone. We all miss her, even today.”
He could tell by the flight-ready angle of her body that they were treading on thin ice, here. Should they be talking about anything beyond superficial factoids? Bantery bonbons?
Sean rested his hands on his belly, showing her he wasn’t going anywhere.
This was nuts, but he was doing it.
“I wish my mom never existed for my dad.” There. He’d said it. Years and years of built-up bitterness and rage, and he’d been able to utter the sentence without screaming it.
Fiona snuggled onto her side, facing him, her hand on his forearm. Comforting. Real. A warm, firm grip telling him she wasn’t going anywhere, either.
At least not right now.
But would she eventually run off into the night, leaving him before he could leave her?
Lincoln’s words pounded into his skull. She’s had disappointments in the past.
Or would Sean stay true to form and end up being the biggest disappointment of them all?
“She just left one day,” he said, referring to his mom. “I think only my dad knows why, but he never talked about it. Not to anyone. He’s disappeared to the point where you don’t know he’s in the room anymore.”
“Do you think that’s what’s going to happen to you?” Her fingers plucked gently at his skin.
“No.” A remnant of bitterness snapped at him. He chased it away. “I don’t know.”
There.
Was she going to open up, even a little? He’d feel a lot better about his own loose talk if she did.
“You’re not so alone,” she said.
He turned his head to catch the empathy on the curve of her plump lips, the inviting velvet-swirl of her gaze. Hesitating, Sean leaned over, hearing the hitch in her breath, then brushed his mouth against hers.
Tenderly, he worshipped the angel-tipped corners of her lips, tasted the sharp sweetness of oranges. He reached one hand out to cup her jaw.
A shower of molten peace swept through him, chasing away the doubts, the fears, blanketing him in a moment of quiet breathlessness.
Unconditional acceptance.
It was their first real kiss. No urgency, no sense of trying to find something lost and unavailable. Just the slow, fluid connection of sipping her into him.
She responded, fingers locked around one of his wrists, her other palm pressed against his chest, welcoming him and pushing him away at the same time.
He wanted her to be pulling at him, beckoning him into a place where she owned the part of his soul that he’d forfeited a few minutes ago.
But when he released her lips, rested his forehead against hers, she reached for his belt buckle.
He intercepted her. “No.”
Confusion engulfed her gaze. “I…”
He didn’t understand, either. At least not when they weren’t kissing or eating orange slices in front of the TV.
She was back to the bet, and he didn’t know if he could follow her there.
She got off the bed and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Maybe you should…”
“…Go?” He got to his elbows.
“Don’t you think?” She was back, the old Fiona, chin tilted upward, playful smile in place. “I mean, I didn’t tell you, but I’ve made arrangements to ride back to L.A. tonight with Casey, Linc’s handler. We’ve got some work to do.”
“I see.”
No he didn’t. Had he made a mistake, coming here, pretending they could be normal people?
Wait. Was she shaking?
That’s it. Big error. The worst. He had no business toying with her—with himself—like this. Sean McIntyre had his life wired. Why change it now?
He got to his feet, put his boots back on and headed for the door. “So I’ll see you in the office Monday.”
“You’re staying?”
“Why not?”
“Oh. Sure. See you then.”
“See you.” Sean said.
And he was out the door before he could look over his shoulder at her. Back in his Caveman Room before he could think straight.
He couldn’t stop remembering her lips on his, gentle, just as soft with longing as his had been.
That night, he drove home, too. First thing he did was go straight to the corner of his bedroom. To the souvenirs.
Bras. Lacy underwear. Playboy centerfolds.
A tube of red lipstick.
He took a garbage bag, tossing away the mementos one by one.
He threw all of them out.
Except for Fiona’s mark.
THE BETTER PART of a week had passed, and Fiona hadn’t heard from Mac.
Actually, she’d made sure of it. The Pilates fashion show had required most of her attention since it was set to roll this coming weekend. She’d be traveling to New Mexico with her actress client to oversee the event, thus getting her out of the office.
In the meantime, she’d worked on the details from an airplane and a hotel room miles away. Far from L.A., thank God, because an actor who’d had his racy memoir banned by a Bible-belt library had insisted on asserting his First Amendment rights. He’d taken her to Kentucky, where he’d strutted in front of the press with Fiona’s guidance. They’d gotten great play in the papers and news.
Success!
Yes, that’s what she’d concentrate on. Work, work, work—
—Mac.
That kiss.
The one that had sucked her soul right out of her body.
The feel of it was inescapable.
Now, here she sat on Lakota’s twilight-bathed sundeck, having accepted Linc’s invitation to enjoy cocktails with them. Fiona ran the rim of her wineglass over her lips, tracing her mouth, cooling the reminder of Mac’s tender lip lock.
Tender. Maybe she’d misread the entire night. Mac wasn’t that vulnerable. He couldn’t have fallen into the trap they’d set for each other.
Really, she thought as she sipped her Riesling, the best thing to do was avoid him.
Avoid her ever-increasing emotions for him.
“You’ve been quiet since you got here,” Linc said.
“Jet lag,” she said. “But don’t you look smirky.”
Linc’s goofy grin led to a blush. Right, a blush, from America’s soap king, a man women cried over when he made personal appearances. A man who was still surprised that he could cause such hysteria.
“Things are going well,” he said.
“With the soap?”
“With everything.”
There he went, getting all discreet on her. This happened when he got hot and heavy. Linc didn’t actually kiss and tell, didn’t go into locker-room graphic detail, but he did talk about his feelings with Fiona. For some reason, he was the only person in the world who thought her qualified to give advice on the subject.
Fiona patted him on the hand. He was holding a half-full water bottle in lieu of alcohol. “I’m happy to see you this way.”
“And I hate what’s happening to you.”
She sat up in her chair. “What do you mean?”
“E-ah.” That was his I-shouldn’t-have-opened-my-big-mouth sound.
“Spit it out.”
“It’s…I’m used to seeing you a certain way. Restless would describe it best, I suppose.
But right now… What are the words for it?”
“I defy description.”
“You’d like to think so. It’s McIntyre, I think.”
Fiona crossed one leg over the other, bobbed her foot in its sling back heel. “I’ve got it under control.”
“That’s what gets to me.” A coastal breeze spiked up a tuft of Linc’s blond hair. “Ted messed you up, and you’ve been dealing out revenge ever since.”
Ouch. “Ted’s history. But, you know, I should’ve paid a visit to him and Crissy while we were in Julian. His quaint ranch isn’t too far away. I could’ve met their little baby, taken some horseback lessons from the one woman I considered a decent friend. And I was so prepared to ride the range, what, with having rested in my Cowboy Room at the B&B.”
“I didn’t think about that,” he said. “Sorry, Fi.”
“For what? For Fate’s little ha-ha on me? I’m over it.” Yes, she was.
Right?
He shot her a glance.
“I am.” She drained the rest of her wine.
Lakota shuffled onto the sundeck. Arranging herself on Linc, she snuggled onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
Fiona wasn’t sure what to say to her. Why invite guests when the girl had gotten bad news recently? Her audition for the prime-time pilot hadn’t panned out. In fact, Linc had confided that the producers had pretty much played the great-another-soap-actress card and dismissed her before she’d gotten a chance to read any lines.
“Hey, Lakota,” said Fiona, smiling at her. “How was work today?”
The younger woman sighed into Linc’s neck. “Terrible. I didn’t have any scenes with Linc.”
He stroked his girlfriend’s hair, keeping a firm hold on her with his other hand. “She ruled the world today, didn’t you? One of her scenes should be used on her Emmy nomination reel.”
Lakota raised a brow. “Daytime Emmys.”
Linc gathered her closer, if that was possible. “Soaps aren’t a bad thing.” He gave an amiable chuckle. “I’m a soap actor.”
“The best.”
Fiona wished she could cling to someone on bad days, too, but she couldn’t imagine being able to. “There’ll be a million chances for you to get other shows. You’re young.”
“Not for much longer.” Lakota shrugged at the sad truth, then got out of her chair and returned inside the house.
“Is she okay?” asked Fiona.
“Don’t worry,” he said, straightening in his chair. “She’ll be back in two seconds to tell us her plan for global domination. Quick rebounder.”
Fiona tapped her fingers on the chair. Sure enough, Lakota returned, a package in hand.
“I almost forgot,” she said, handing it over to Fiona. She went back to Linc, nesting again.
Unable to witness the love-fest anymore, Fiona opened the box. Inside was a bottle of perfume. The design of it was chic, like the angles of a postmodern house. She took out the stopper and sniffed it.
“Mmm.” The mysterious heaviness of jasmine with a tease of…what was it?…grapefruit?
She dabbed a drop on her wrist, replaced the stopper, rubbed skin on skin to spread the scent. “Thank you,” she said to the loving couple.
Lakota didn’t change position. “It’s from Sean.”
Fiona froze. Suddenly, the smell overwhelmed her, enveloped her. Stifled her.
A phantom pressure tingled her lips, reminding her of his kiss.
Lakota added, “He went back to the perfumery and had this mixed especially for you.”
“Well.” Fiona didn’t know what else to say. She was imprisoned in her chair, partly from embarrassment—because she just knew what Linc was thinking—partly from an instinctual urge to stay, to accept his gift as if he really did care for her.
Now the young actress was addressing Linc. “Told you Sean would win. You owe me a kiss.”
Lincoln shook his head, adapted a couples-only tone of voice—just this side of baby talk. “He can’t buy her off. Right, Fi?”
“What are you talking about?”
Linc laughed. “We’ve got a bet going.”
An uninvited blush consumed her. She’d never told him about her wager with Mac. Why? In spite of her bravado, the bet didn’t represent the proudest moment in her life, even though she’d convinced herself it was a dandy idea.
Now it was Lakota’s turn to act amused. “We’ve noticed some fireworks between the two of you. And we’re just wondering… How do I put this delicately, Linc?”
“There’s no way.”
Lakota focused on Fiona while resting against Linc’s wide chest. “Which master would beat the other one.”
Master.
Player.
That’s all she was, right? Mac, too. How could she have forgotten? People didn’t change because of one kiss. Life didn’t work that way. It was too uncompromising, yanking away promises just when you thought you had them in hand.
Though Linc had asked about Mac before, Fiona hadn’t known about any bet her friend had made with Lakota. The unexpected wager took Linc one step away from her and one step closer to his girlfriend.
“God, Kota.” Linc laughed uncomfortably. “Fi’s got a heart, you know.”
Act like you don’t care, she commanded herself. It’s never bothered you before.
But she couldn’t.
“Maybe I do,” she said, voice near a whisper.
“At any rate,” said Lakota, caressing Linc’s ribs, “my money’s still on Sean. I mean, look at that perfume. That’s manipulation if I’ve ever seen it.”
Her underdog instincts roused themselves. Jasmine and grapefruit filled her nostrils, yet she fought the takeover of her senses.
So Mac thought he had her where he wanted her? Thought he could kiss her senseless, control her in the end?
Maybe that’s all last weekend’s kiss had been. Like the vintage nightgown, it was another “gift” to sway her to the losing side.
Ted’s voice came to her over the phone again: Crissy and I are in Vegas. We got married, Fiona.
Long ago, she’d told herself that she wouldn’t be owned again. Beaten down by disappointment.
When she got back from her business trip this weekend, maybe Mac should get a taste of manipulation, too.
She’d mix pleasure and control as carefully as the ingredients of an expensive perfume, creating a dose of superior game playing.
She’d convince herself that he had no hold on her.
Chapter Twelve
THEY DIDN’T SEE each other for the next week and a half.
She was in Santa Fe, then San Francisco, then New York, tending to business.
He was in the office, manufacturing scandals and triumphs in L.A.
It wasn’t until the eve of their bet’s cutoff, a Saturday night, that they saw each other again. And, even then, it wasn’t arranged.
Or so he thought.
Sean followed Lakota out of a rented limo that dropped them off in front of the foliage-encased Malibu mansion of a film producer. As the balmy air licked at his skin, the scent of jasmine reminded him of Fiona.
The perfume.
He’d received a breezy e-mail from her thanking him, and the message had left him isolated.
He wanted to see her again, kiss her. Hold her because, even now, she was running away.
The knowledge weighed heavily, the sort of pressure that had probably kept his father sitting by the window.
Lakota took his arm. “Boy, were we lucky to be invited. I just know tonight’s going to change my life.”
Loud rock music blasted from a hidden location beyond the mansion as he and Lakota walked to the door. The structure perched on a hilltop, overlooking the beach and acres of vineyard, with cottages dotting the climbing landscape.
“See,” said Lakota, “by the time the sun comes up, I’m going to be on the wish list of every mover and shaker here.” She gave her tight black dress one last sweep of the palm. “Do I look blockb
uster?”
“Always.” She’d brought Sean along to the party because she’d convinced him he could hook some more big fish clients here. Besides, he had connections, and Lakota could take advantage of that.
Linc had denied her pleas to come with them, and Sean couldn’t blame the guy. These big Hollywood bashes were laced with drugs, alcohol, everything a person didn’t need after a rehab stint. Linc had already arranged to meet his agent at El Cholo, the famous Mexican restaurant, anyway.
Not that it dampened Lakota’s spirits. As she rang the doorbell, she seemed every inch the budding actress.
It was Sean’s job to encourage this transformation into the big time, but it didn’t stop his heart from breaking at the sight.
He didn’t want to see this business devour Lakota.
“Thank goodness for Fiona,” she said as a suited man opened the door. “It might kill me, but I’ll have to give her a big old hug of appreciation.”
They walked in and were summarily escorted through the fabulous, black-and-white schemed premises.
“Fiona?” asked Sean. “What does she have to do with this?”
Wide-eyed, Lakota ran her hand along the furniture and the antique mirrors. “She’s the one who told me to bring you. This house belongs to Johnny Calloway, the producer who’s doing Terry Oatman’s comeback movie.”
Fiona really had been busy, obviously engineering Oatman’s return to glory. Impressive.
The silent man led them out of the mansion, past the beach-inspired swimming pool, up a palm-shrouded path toward the music. Of course Johnny Calloway wouldn’t tear up his lovely mansion. This was the party house. Sean noticed several other cottages peeking through the greenery.
And then they were inside, a Rolling Stones tune crashing out of a state-of-the-art surround sound system. There were men in suits smoking cigars and other questionable objects, women—starlets and probably hookers—in skimpy dresses giggling and hanging all over the males.
Lakota beamed, and Sean hoped she wasn’t feeling at home. He didn’t normally attend these things, but when his favorite client—he might as well admit it—had asked, he’d given in.