Michael glanced over at her. “Oh, hello. I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”
“Hello.” Isabelle’s enjoyment of the view was spoiled now. However, it seemed too rude and too childish to duck back into her room just because Michael had come onto his balcony. Why did they have to be next door to each other?
As if sensing her thought, Michael smiled slightly and said, “They’ve put us all together. Lyle’s on the other side of you. And they put Jackson over there.” He named the cameraman, nodding toward the balcony that lay on the other side of his. “Makeup, Wardrobe, everything...we’re all up and down this hall.”
“I see.” She shrugged, indicating her indifference. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“I suppose not.”
Isabelle turned back toward her door. “Well, I think I’ll go take a nap now.”
She went quickly back inside, closing the heavy drapes against the sunlight and the sight of Michael, arms braced on the railing of his balcony, looking out over the ocean. She felt trapped. It seemed as if everything and everyone was conspiring to throw her together with Michael. With a groan of disgust, she threw herself on her bed and closed her eyes. How in the world was she going to make it through the next week?
* * *
It was hot, and Isabelle was damp with perspiration. She was lying on a lounge chair on the beach; she could hear the ocean rolling in to shore near her, a muted, constant background. She was utterly alone; the beach was deserted.
She opened her eyes, and she saw Michael standing there, looking down at her. He wore only a towel around his waist, and his flesh was bronzed and gleaming. Heat flared in her abdomen as she looked up at him. He knelt beside her chair and, without saying a word, he slid his hand down her body, silently, almost lazily, exploring every curve and crevice. Isabelle’s breasts swelled and ached in response, and her nipples tightened, pointing against the material of her bikini top. He caressed her stomach and abdomen, and his fingers slipped between her legs to rub softly up and down, touching her through the material of her swimsuit. She was flooded with moisture at his touch. She stretched sensuously and opened her legs wider, reveling in the pleasure.
Then, somehow, her swimsuit was gone, and she was completely naked. The sun was hot upon her skin, but not as hot as Michael’s eyes and hands. He caressed her everywhere, never saying a word as his fingers searched her most intimate spots. Isabelle wanted to touch him, too, but somehow she could not. It was frustrating, but the intense pleasure overrode that. His finger slipped inside her, stroking in and out, and she moved with him, raising her pelvis from the bed. He took her nipple in his mouth as his fingers found the fleshy little nub between her legs and began to stroke it. Isabelle gasped as his mouth and finger worked in unison, arousing her. Her hips moved frantically, seeking release. Then the explosion came, so hard it woke her up.
Isabelle opened her eyes, staring blankly up at the ceiling. Her loins were like melted wax, and there was a sweet pulsation between her legs. She squeezed her legs together reflexively, but it didn’t satisfy her. She wanted to feel his fullness inside her.
She groaned and rolled over, burying her face in her pillow. She was flushed with pleasure, yet at the same time strangely dissatisfied. It wasn’t enough. The dream had left her hot and tingling, aching for the reality of Michael’s touch. She wanted to feel his kiss, his touch, the weight of his body on hers.
With a low curse, Isabelle stood up and went into the bathroom to splash cool water on her face. She didn’t know how she would be able to face Michael again after that dream. She was afraid that every time she’d look at him, she would remember the wanton way she had responded to him in the dream. He would know nothing of it, but she knew it would embarrass her. Worse than that, she was afraid she could not look at him without wanting to feel all the glorious sensations she had experienced in the dream. Now, more than ever, she wondered how she was going to last through this filming. The week ahead seemed unbearable—especially the love scene they would be filming in a day or two!
Isabelle changed her clothes and went for a brisk walk on the beach, hoping that would clear the sensual thoughts from her head. It was only partially successful. She ate supper alone on the terrace overlooking the ocean and went to bed early. But as soon as her head touched the pillow, the memory of her dream came flooding back, filling her mind, and it was a long time before she finally fell asleep.
The next morning she arose early, as they all had to, and ate breakfast in the hotel café with Debbie and Callie, the hairstylist and makeup artist. They were the only other women from the show on the location shoot. Both the women were nice, and generally Isabelle found their conversation interesting enough, but this morning their chatter merely irritated her. Their main topic of conversation was Michael Traynor, who walked into the restaurant while they were eating. He smiled and stopped by the table to say hello, then made his way to his table, stopping with a gracious smile to sign an autograph for an adoring fan.
Callie sighed and said, “He is so yummy.”
“Why is everyone so gaga over him?” Isabelle asked sourly.
Debbie gaped at her. “You mean you don’t like him?”
“Not much.” Isabelle shrugged. “He’s handsome, but...”
“Oh, he’s a lot more than that. He’s nice, too,” Debbie assured her. “I mean, he’s not a stuck-up mannequin, like Brooks Fitzgerald was.”
Isabelle groaned. Brooks had played her first husband on the show and had been immensely popular with the viewers, but he had been a constant source of irritation to everyone who had to work with him. Almost the whole cast and crew, not to mention the writers, had heaved a collective sigh of relief when he had left the show.
“No one’s like Brooks.”
“Yeah, but Michael’s different from lots of them. He doesn’t just turn your knees to water. He’s friendly and polite and...well, treats you like a regular person. Whenever I’m doing his makeup, he asks me about my little boy.”
“Don’t you like him, Isabelle?” Callie asked, her expression almost worried. “In that seduction scene, you two looked like you got along pretty well.”
“That was acting,” Isabelle replied promptly.
“Well, it was some acting, then.”
“You aren’t at all interested in him?” Debbie added. “I mean, both of you being single and all. And if you set off sparks like that just acting...”
“No,” Isabelle replied firmly, standing up and laying her napkin down on the table. “I am not at all interested in him. Sorry, I have to run now. I’ve got to go over the script again.”
She started away, but as she did so, she overheard Debbie whisper to Callie, “Well, I’m still betting on them getting together.”
She came to a dead stop and listened as Callie agreed, “Yeah, me, too. I think she’s protesting too much.”
Isabelle turned back around. The two women glanced up and saw her, and their faces flooded with guilt. Isabelle took the two steps back to the table.
“What are you talking about? Is there a bet on the show about us?” There was a great deal of tedium involved in producing a television show, and it was often relieved on “Tomorrows” by practical jokes and bets on all sorts of events.
“Well...yes,” Debbie replied reluctantly.
“How could you!” Isabelle’s face flushed with anger. “That’s an invasion of privacy. What gives you all the right to bet on my love life?”
Callie defended herself. “Everyone does it. You bet on Phil’s baby last year.”
“There’s a good deal of difference between betting on whether a baby will be a boy or a girl and betting on whether someone goes to bed with someone else!”
“Only in degree,” Debbie affirmed. “You can’t keep people from being curious about it after that scene between the two of you.”
“It was just a scene!” Isabelle snapped. “Why can’t anybody realize that?”
“Because your love scenes with J
im never steam up the cameras,” Callie replied bluntly.
“It didn’t mean anything. I am not interested in Michael Traynor! And you can tell all your buddies that they’re wasting their money if they’re betting on us going to bed with each other.”
She turned on her heel and stalked off, leaving the two women gazing after her thoughtfully. They looked back at each other.
“Who said anything about going to bed with each other?” Callie asked. “The bet’s just for a date, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Debbie grinned suddenly. “I think that’s what’s called a Freudian slip. I believe I’ll double my bet.”
* * *
They spent the morning shooting a beach scene in which Jessica and Curtis argued in their usual biting way and which ended with Jessica pouring a tall glass of a tropical drink into Curtis’s lap. Isabelle derived a great deal of satisfaction from doing it; it banished the nasty mood she’d been in all morning.
The AD gushed about how wonderful Isabelle’s wickedly gloating expression was. Isabelle wondered if the girl had money down on the opposite side—that she and Michael wouldn’t get together. The thought struck her as amusing, and after that she could not recapture the indignation she had felt earlier. When Callie pleaded for her not to be mad during the afternoon makeup session, Isabelle had to smile and shrug the whole thing off.
In the afternoon, they shot an exterior scene in town where she and Michael came running out of the front of a shop and down the street after a man who had offered them information about Mark’s whereabouts. After that, they shot two more scenes of them chasing the man through the maze of stalls that made up the open-air market. They finished the day with sunset shots of Michael walking along the beach, looking troubledly out at the ocean and of Isabelle standing on the terrace of the hotel, watching Michael.
The next morning they were up at dawn to ride out in the vans to shoot the car chase scenes. They were to be shot on a side road that led to a small beach from the main highway. The road had been blocked off at the highway. While the crew set up to shoot, Michael strolled over to the nearby beach, and Isabelle went into the deserted tropical juice bar. She sat down at one of the empty tables to wait. As she sat, idly watching the crew work, dark clouds massed on the horizon and moved toward them. Suddenly, wind was whipping through the open-air building in which Isabelle sat, and the skies opened up, sending down a torrential tropical rain.
The crew and director jumped into the vans down beside the shoot. Isabelle settled back in her chair to wait out the storm alone. Then Michael came running up from the beach and into the bar. He was already drenched, his thick hair dripping water and his shirt plastered to his muscular body. He swept his hands back through his hair, squeezing out the water, and glanced around.
“Well,” he said, taking note of the empty building, “looks like we’re stranded here together.”
Six
Isabelle was reminded forcibly of her dream from two days before, and she flushed, her mind suddenly flooded with images from the dream. Her mouth was dry, and she was incapable of saying anything.
Michael walked over to Isabelle’s table and grasped the back of one of the cane chairs. Grinning down at her, he asked, “Do you think you can stand being alone with me? Or shall I sit across the room?”
His joking words made Isabelle feel foolish, bringing her joltingly back to reality, and she said ungraciously, “No. Sit down.”
“Why, thank you.” He ran his hand down his face and over his hair again, sluicing the water from himself, then sat down in the chair. He pulled the wet shirt away from his body, looking down at it ruefully. “Callie’ll be on my case about soaking this shirt. I’m supposed to be crisp and pressed when we start out.” His wry smile invited her to join in his amusement at his own sorry state. “A Townsend would never look like a drowned rat, after all.”
“It’ll dry soon enough when the sun comes out,” Isabelle replied unsympathetically. “Besides, I don’t imagine Callie would scold you even if you’d dragged your shirt through the mud.”
He raised an eyebrow at her remark. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That every female member of the office staff and crew and cast practically swoon over you.”
“Not every one,” he replied, looking pointedly at Isabelle.
She shrugged and turned her head to gaze out at the rain. Michael, shivering a little as the wind swept over his wet body, stared stonily in the same direction for a few minutes.
Finally Isabelle broke the silence. Still staring straight ahead of her, she asked in a determinedly casual voice, “Did you know that they’re making bets on us?”
Michael glanced at her, puzzled. “Bets? On us? What do you mean?”
“You know. Surely you’ve made them. A few years ago, everyone was betting on whether Sandra Fein would go through with her wedding. She’d been engaged three times, and the others all fell through.”
“I see.” He looked at her profile for a moment, then said quietly, “And what are they betting about us?”
“Whether we’ll get together.” She looked at him. “You didn’t know anything about it?”
“First I’d heard of it. But, then, I suppose you and I would be the last to know.”
“Obviously it doesn’t bother you.”
Michael shrugged. “What’s to bother me? They’re just amusing themselves, and it doesn’t hurt me any.” He studied her. “Why does it bother you?”
“I don’t like people poking their noses in my private life.”
“I presume they aren’t spying on us all the time to find out.”
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past them,” Isabelle said darkly.
He chuckled. “Come on, I think you’re reaching for that.” He paused, then went on, “It’s because they’re linking us together, isn’t it? You don’t like that even in jest.”
There was another long silence. Isabelle refused to let herself turn and look at Michael. Finally he said, his voice low and husky with emotion, “You know, Isabelle, I never wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry. I wish I could take back what I did to you then.”
Isabelle crossed her arms over her body. “You don’t need to apologize. I was young and stupid. I should never have gotten involved with you.”
“I know. I knew it then. You were too young. Hell, I was too young. I tried not to fall for you. You probably don’t believe that, but I did. I knew you were too innocent for me. But I—whenever I was around you, I didn’t have much luck keeping my head. I told myself it wouldn’t hurt to be around you, to talk to you. Then that wasn’t enough. I had to be alone with you. Of course, that wasn’t enough, either. Nothing was enough until you were in my bed.”
Isabelle’s body contracted involuntarily at the sensual picture his words conjured up, and heat stole through her as she remembered that first night...the two of them lying close together in Michael’s narrow bed, his heat enveloping her, his hands drifting over her body.
“Then I couldn’t stop,” Michael went on baldly. “Once I’d known that pleasure, been so close to you, a part of you, I couldn’t give it up.”
Isabelle hated the warmth flooding through her, hated the fact that he could stir her with nothing more than his voice. She stiffened against the treacherous feeling, tightening her mouth into a thin line.
“Stop it!” Isabelle snapped, whirling to face him. She intended to say more, to cut him with her words until he withdrew from her table. But the sight of his face, warm and soft with sensuality, stopped her. For an instant, she could not breathe.
This time, it was he who looked away. “God! When you look at me, I want to...” Michael drew a long, shuddering breath. “I never dreamed that you could still do the same thing to me. I thought when I took this job that we could put the past behind us, that maybe somehow we could even be friends.”
“I think that’s impossible,” Isabelle said in a choked voice.
“You’re right about that.” Michael r
an his hands over his face. “Oh, hell.” He rose to his feet, shoving his chair back abruptly. He started to walk away, but then he turned and leaned down, bracing his hands on the table and staring directly into her face. “I want you to know one thing. You seem to think that I just tossed you aside like an old shirt or something, that I walked away without a backward glance or the slightest twinge of pain. But let me tell you, I lay awake at night, thinking about you and sweating, wanting you so bad, I thought I’d do almost anything to make it stop. I hated myself for leaving you, for making you suffer, for making me suffer. I picked up the phone so many times and called you, but then I’d hang up. Once I even got on a train and rode halfway to Virginia before I came to my senses and got off and went back. You were not a few casual nights in the sack for me. I loved you. And when I left, it hurt like hell.”
Isabelle gazed at him, bereft of speech. Michael pushed himself away from the table and walked to the other side of the bar, where he stood, arms crossed, leaning against one of the supporting posts, staring out at the rain.
Isabelle stared at his back, struggling to pull her scattered thoughts together. Michael’s words had hit her like stones, painful in their intensity. For a moment she was stunned. Then a variety of emotions began to well up in her—sympathy, bewilderment, even guilt and a strange longing to comfort him. A saving anger swelled up in her, sweeping away the other emotions. The nerve of him, to try to make her feel sorry for him, when he was the one who had left her!
“Just a minute!” she exclaimed, jumping up and crossing the room in a few quick strides. She grasped his arm and pulled. He turned with the movement of her hand, not resisting, and looked down into her face. “Tell me something. If you loved me so much, if you were so damn hurt, then why did you leave?”
“You know why. I explained it in my letter.”
“What! You mean, leaving me because you loved me?” Isabelle asked sarcastically.
“Yes, dammit, that’s what I mean!” he snapped back, his brows drawing together thunderously and his eyes shooting sparks. “It’s what I said. I didn’t lie. Although obviously you chose to believe what you wanted to.”
Once in a Blue Moon Page 7