On screen, Brody made a face that was both funny and sexy, with a Hugh Grant sweetness to it, and Jillian felt arousal burn through her, speeded by the Grand Marnier, which seemed to have reduced her ability to control her body.
“Do you think the sound is fuzzy?” she said to stay focused.
“With that on the screen, who cares about the sound?”
They both watched as the on-screen Brody left the table where they’d been filming and came toward Jillian’s camera. “Does that do it for you, JJ?” He meant the shot, had they nailed what she needed, but his voice had a slowness to it and his eyes shone wickedly.
“Yes,” she said, matching his tone, “it does.” Watching the footage, Jillian could see that Brody wanted her. And her own voice betrayed the fact that she wanted him, too. It was in plain view on the monitor. Things always came clearer for her on screen. It wasn’t until she looked at what she’d captured for her documentaries that she discovered the real story she had to tell.
Now, in her hotel room they both stared at the laptop. She heard Brody swallow hard as she did the same. In unison, they turned their heads and looked at each other, faces inches apart, the golden light making the moment cinematic.
They were so close, lips almost touching, breathing each other’s breaths, holding each other’s gaze, heat swelling between them, pulling them closer.
“You know, you’re not really crew….” He ran a finger down her arm, sending a quiver down her body, then cupped her cheek.
“I’m guess I’m not,” she breathed.
Their lips met. She wasn’t sure whose mouth ate up that last inch, but she was relieved, as if someone had poured water on a fire that threatened to engulf her.
Except now it burned even hotter.
Brody took her mouth more completely, his lips firm and tasting of smoky whiskey. She leaned in and he put his other hand to her face and deepened the kiss.
She felt captured, overwhelmed, raging with desire, and she began to tremble. They breathed harshly, desperate for air, eating each other up with their mouths.
She should stop. So far it was just a kiss, easy enough to explain away and forget. Except everything in her wanted more of this man. His mouth, his lips, his fingers, his body.
She heard music and Barry White’s low growl, something about taking it off…tonight, baby…can’t get enough…. Brody had managed mood music?
“Damn.” Brody reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Barry White got louder. The Walrus of Love was Brody’s ring tone. “It’s the guy for the DVD, no doubt,” he said, putting the phone to his ear and leaning away.
“Yeah?” he said, then listened. “I’m just down the hall…. Sure…. Right…. I’ll be there.” He clicked off. “Jeez, where’s the fire? Duty calls, I guess,” he said, looking sheepish.
“You could come back,” she said. They could have that after-sex conversation about the real Brody. She needed that, she told herself. She did.
“But you think that would be a mistake, huh?” He smiled.
She hadn’t said that, hadn’t thought it yet, would think it only when it was far too late.
He ran his knuckle down her jawline, pressed his lips against her forehead in soft farewell. “I’m glad one of us can be sensible.” When he pulled away, she swore he looked…relieved. As if he’d dodged a bullet.
She followed him to the door on shaky legs, completely confused.
“See you tomorrow?” He chucked her chin. “Flight’s at eleven.”
“See you then.” She closed the door, utterly mortified. She’d been overwhelmed by unimaginable lust, while Brody had been going through the motions, working his Doctor Nite mojo in a knee-jerk seduction. He probably couldn’t help himself. It was a reflex and she was the handiest female.
That stung.
Her gaze fell on her camera, which she realized was still running. Hell, she’d filmed that kiss. She rushed to turn it off, then returned to the table to grab one of the bottles Brody had left. She drank all of it from its tiny top. Scotch, she realized afterward, because it tasted like Brody’s kiss.
She undressed and donned her comforting blue chenille robe, trying to look on the bright side. She’d figured it out before she embarrassed herself, at least. To Brody, sex was no more intimate than a handshake. Even if she wasn’t ready to settle down like Dana and Becca, sex meant more to her. It signified a deepening friendship, mutual comfort, an emotional connection. She certainly didn’t want to sleep with a guy who’d likely check his watch in the middle of the act.
She’d dated and slept with a few guys, but had had only two real boyfriends. Ben, a producer at her news station, for six months, and Gary for a whole a year. He was a filmmaker, too, and they’d had long earnest conversations about film and their separate visions for their own work.
The sex had been…friendly. But when Gary got the chance to work on a film in Australia, she’d seen it as a natural break before either of them got carried away. She’d only been miserable for a week after he left and counted herself lucky to have escaped so easily.
She had hopes, of course. Surely there were serious, sincere men who wanted a solid life with a partner, men who were above Doctor Nite’s shallow philosophy. Men who weren’t players like her father. When she was ready, she’d look for one. Maybe have a family. Down the line, when she had her career squared away. Right now, her work was everything.
It was natural to respond to Brody, really. So much of sexual attraction was reflexive—biology’s automatic On switch. But she was bigger than her urges. Even if Brody’s kiss could melt cold steel.
She touched her lips, felt that spike of lust again. She wanted to chase him down for more. For enough. Brody would be a fantastic lover, after all. She deserved that experience, didn’t she? Except she didn’t want to be another notch on the belt of a guy who found naked women in his bed every night.
Nope. She could control this, she told herself, twisting off the cap of another scotch, planning to numb herself enough to sleep. She had it to her lips when she stopped.
No more alcohol. She was already woozy. What she needed was a cold, fuzzy soda to cool herself down. For that she’d need ice. Maybe she could dump some in her lap while she was at it.
She grabbed her ice bucket, braced her room door open and headed down the hall, wobbling, so she knew she was right to lay off the booze. She didn’t need a hangover to make it harder to endure another day of the Brody Treatment.
JUST OUTSIDE JJ’s door, Brody stopped, closed his eyes and relived that kiss. What a mouth. Soft as butter, but firm, too. She could use it to give him hell or kiss him into submission. Either way, he’d enjoy it. He could still taste her. Orange from the drink and sweet—that lip gloss? Maybe just her lips. Mmm.
That was a bad idea, he told himself, setting off to deliver the DVD. He’d meant to work on Night Crimes, his thriller featuring Detective Trent Lager, the first of what he hoped would be a series. His life as Doctor Nite presented plenty of plots—late nights brought out vice, excess and stupidity, he’d found.
He’d been carving out the tale, page by painful page, for the past month. Until now. One hundred and twenty-three pages into it, he’d become stuck, stalled, blocked. He’d intended to work on in tonight, but he’d only glanced at his laptop before grabbing up the miniatures and hightailing it to JJ’s room.
How could he resist? She was so smart, so quick, her mind ticking away every second. She had him pushing himself with the show, too, and that was good. He did want to talk about the show. Really.
He surely did not want to talk about himself. Not with someone so hard to resist. Her question about what Brody Donegan thought about Doctor Nite’s life had hit him hard. He’d gotten so good at faking it, he wasn’t sure he knew the answer, not without a shrink jabbing at him. Or Jillian.
Now that he was shaky about his book, doubts about his plans to change had seeped in. The crew would be devastated. Kirk wasn’t willing to conside
r another job. His friends loved Doctor Nite. They’d think he was joking or crazy. He liked making people happy, hated to disappoint. He loved his show, too. He just wanted…more.
Maybe he was just burned out. Maybe he was fooling himself that he could change his life.
He wondered if JJ would think he was crazy to quit. She would have an opinion, for sure. The woman knew what she wanted and went after it, no doubts at all. She’d chased him down and demanded the job. He wished he could be that certain about what he wanted.
Madden’s room was at the far end of the hall. Passing the ice machine, he made a decision. He would return to his room and open that blasted laptop and write one page, dammit. Two hundred and fifty words. He could handle that. How did that famous quote go? Writing is easy. All you do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.
No shit. Writing was hard. Writing a novel, anyway. Writing for his show was as easy as breathing. Fiction required the careful mix of back story and action, character and plot, sensual detail and narrative drive. It was tough. But when the words flowed, it was like flying, and Brody loved it. Craved it.
He’d just have to work at it. Stop being lazy. If it were easy, everyone would be published.
Finding Madden’s room, Brody tapped on the door. There was a flick of light while the man checked the peephole, then the door opened, security bar in place. “Donegan?”
“That’s me.” He held up the DVD case.
The guy unlatched the bar and tried to open the door, but it snagged on something—a throw rug, Brody saw when Madden finally waved him inside. The suite smelled of cigars and the large bar held a row of half-empty liquor bottles. Baskets and trays of cheeses, chips and snacks littered the space.
Madden checked the hall, then shut the door fast, as if for privacy. He was tall and thin and wore a rumpled discount suit too short in the sleeves. His armpits were sweaty, his striped tie askew, and Lars Madden had been hastily scribbled on the patriotically trimmed name tag.
“You’re at the shindig downstairs?” Brody nodded at the tag. The women he’d interviewed had preprinted names on theirs.
“I am indeed,” he said, oddly emphatic. “It’s all exciting…. Politics is…amazing…. Just so…important….” He trailed off, looking as if he wanted to be finished.
“Here you go,” Brody said, holding out the DVD.
The guy grabbed it, dropped it into an open briefcase on the bureau. He slammed it shut and latched the briefcase fast, as if the disc were on fire and he had to smother it out.
“Having a party?” Brody asked, nodding at the loaded bar.
“This is the hospitality suite,” he said, going to hold the door for Brody. He was in a hurry, all right. “Thanks again.”
“No prob—” He turned, but got the door in his face. Okay. I know when I’m not wanted. Where was the fire?
Brody headed for the elevator, wondering why he’d gotten the bum’s rush. He’d gone down two hallways before he realized Madden hadn’t given him a check or a receipt. Kirk hadn’t said anything about money, but he tended to be casual with details and Brody knew a few clients had been slippery about payment.
He headed back to confirm. Turning the last corner, he saw a heavyset man at Madden’s door. Turned away from Brody, the guy hitched up his jacket for a room key, revealing a holster clipped to his waistband. With a gun in it. Madden had a roommate. And he was armed.
The key card turned the lock green, but when the guy pushed at the door, it didn’t give. He shoved harder, clearly fighting resistance. Madden was trying to keep him out?
Now the big guy slammed his bulk against the door and forced his way inside. What the hell…?
Brody moved closer. He could see the door was stuck partly open. The rug, no doubt. Skin prickling, he slid near enough to see inside, where the two men struggled over the briefcase, groaning and huffing as they dragged each other around the room. Banging into the bar, the big guy lost his balance and fell onto a chair.
When he stood, he reached back and grabbed the gun, which he extended, two-handed, at Madden, who froze, gasping in alarm.
Unwilling to get shot, Brody backed silently from the door, intending to get help, braced for action, the way he’d felt at tae kwan do meets, physically primed and mentally stoked. Reaching for his phone, though, he was horrified to see JJ toddling toward him with an ice bucket, wearing a god-awful robe.
“Brody!” She smiled a loopy smile and waved in a very un-JJ-like way. She was drunk?
He lunged for her, a finger to his lips, grabbed her arm and quickstepped her back toward her room. When he heard movement behind him, he slid her into the ice cubicle, fearing it was the gunman.
She opened her mouth, so he stopped her from speaking the quickest way he knew—with his mouth on hers. He kept his back to the hall to hide their faces. Making out was a reasonable excuse to be lurking in the alcove in the middle of the night should the guy look their way as he passed.
“Mmmmph,” JJ said into his mouth. The ice bucket clanged to the linoleum as she let it go.
“Play along,” he whispered, holding her close, listening with all his might as heavy footsteps approached, then passed. He managed to be aware of how good JJ tasted and the way she softened against him beneath the fuzzy fabric.
When he heard no more noise, he broke off the kiss to verify the coast was clear.
“What’s going on?” she asked, dazed.
“I’ll explain. Come on.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and walked her quickly back to her door. He saw she’d propped it open with the lock bar. “This is a bad idea,” he said, flipping it out of the way, then pushing her ahead of him.
When he turned to close the door, he caught sight of the gunman standing at the end of the hall. He’d evidently gone the wrong way looking for the elevator, a mistake Brody had made himself. The guy looked right at him with cold, dead eyes in a red, meaty face. He knew Brody knew something. He hesitated, as if considering whether to go after Brody, then took off, briefcase banging against his thigh as he ran.
A finger of ice ran down Brody’s spine. The gunman not only knew Brody had seen him, but he knew which room he was in. Except it was JJ’s. Damn. “I’ve got to call hotel security,” he said, going for the phone beside her bed.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I’ll explain after I get some help.” He got the security manager on the phone and explained that he’d seen a guy with a gun break into a room, scuffle over a briefcase, which he then ran off with. JJ’s eyes went wide as she listened in. The security manager promised to handle the situation and asked Brody to stay put until he called back.
Brody set down the phone. How would they catch the guy? A man in a suit with a briefcase was in perfect camouflage for a convention hotel.
“Wow,” she said. “You saw all that. The gun…the fight…and he stole the DVD you gave the guy?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry I had to grab you. I didn’t want him to see you.”
“You kissed me.” She brought her fingers to her lips, as if in memory. Her robe gaped, revealing the swell of a breast. It was no more skin than he’d see at any singles bar, but with JJ it seemed somehow sexier, even in that funky robe she had on.
Adrenaline still poured through him, but lust hit head-on. “I needed to distract you,” he said, moving closer.
“You did…very much.” The robe was short and fuzzy and loose, tied by a fat belt that would come apart with the merest tug. He thought about getting his hands on those breasts. Would they taste as delicious as they looked. Would she moan? Throw her head back? Soften against him?
How the hell could he be thinking about getting naked with a gunman on the loose?
“It’s the danger,” JJ said, as if in reply. An answering fire burned in her eyes. “It makes me feel…odd.” Aroused, she meant. She was breathing funny, she was flushed and her voice was husky and slow.
“That must be it,” he said. “I,
uh, need to make sure Madden’s okay.” He lurched forward to lap her robe more securely and yank the belt tighter, then backed away fast.
He got no answer on the room phone or Madden’s cell, and when the cell voice mail gave only a number, not a name, Brody disconnected without leaving a message. Meathead might had taken Madden’s phone, for all he knew.
He looked at JJ. “I have to check the room. The guy could be passed out on the floor, injured or dead.” He hadn’t heard a shot, but still…
“Let the hotel handle it, Brody.”
“Who knows when they’ll get there. They’re looking for the guy with the gun. I have to see for myself. I’ll be careful.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said, wobbling a little.
He smiled. “In your fuzzy robe? Got bunny slippers?”
“Why not?” She stuck her chin out, her eyes determined.
Because you’re drunk. He knew better than to say that to a woman this stubborn. “Your reflexes might not be as lightning-quick as mine.”
“Oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes, but she walked him to the door, gnawing her lower lip.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, feeling like Trent Lager. “Don’t let anyone in. Make security show you ID if they knock.”
“Be careful,” she said and he felt her watching him all the way down the hall. It made him want to smile.
He found Madden’s door open slightly, the room empty. No suitcase, no clothes in the closet, no toiletries in the bathroom. No sign the man had ever been in the room. Well, except for the hospitality leftovers. Both men had keys to the room. Maybe because hospitality suites often had several hosts.
When Brody left Madden’s empty bathroom, he was startled to find JJ standing there. “You were supposed to wait.” She’d put herself at risk following him here.
“You needed backup,” she said, giving the cop show line her usual no-nonsense delivery. An insight hit him like lightning. Trent Lager needed a woman. A female sidekick. A P.I. maybe? Sure. Someone with corkscrew curls and intense green eyes and a no-bullshit way about her. A P.I. who charged too much and was worth every penny and refused to put up with an ounce of grief from him.
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