by Regina Kyle
Ethan pushed his chair back from the table and walked over to her. “You’re wrong, Holls. The sexual tension in the room was off the charts from the second you laid eyes on each other. And it definitely wasn’t a one-way street.”
“So what are you saying? You want me to seduce him into taking the part?”
“No. Of course not.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “We want you to talk to him. Just talk. It’s obvious you two have some sort of connection. He’ll listen to you.”
She shook his hand off. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this. After the way you sandbagged me! I should be mad at you, you know. Strike that. I am mad at you.”
“You know if I had told you it was Nick, you would have flipped out.”
“I would not have.”
“Then why are you flipping out now? So you had a crush on him as a kid. Big deal. It’s ancient history.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling me...”
“No.” She resisted the urge to check her nose to see if it was growing after that whopper. “I just don’t know what I can say that will convince him to take this part.”
“Tell him what you told me when I came on as director. That you wrote The Lesser Vessel because you want to help other women in the same situation find the courage to get the hell out.”
Courage. Hah. What did she know about courage?
“Please, Holls,” Ethan begged, blessedly interrupting the dark turn of her thoughts. “It’s our best chance of getting this show off the ground.”
“You want me to admit he’d be playing my ex-husband? Blurt out my whole sordid life story?”
“Okay, skip that part. But let him know how important the message of this show is. Not just to you but to the whole production team. We believe in you and your play, Holly. He will, too, if you give him the chance.”
“Well, when you put it that way...” She took a deep breath, then blew it out loudly through pursed lips. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“And if the subject of your past relationship comes up...”
“I told you. There’s nothing to discuss. There is—was—no relationship.” Holly made her way to the door. “I’m beginning to regret this already. Remind me again why you can’t join me on this little errand?”
“It’s Jean-Michel’s birthday. He’ll kill me if I’m late for the celebratory dinner I supposedly planned for him that was really all his doing. Besides,” he teased, his eyes sparkling and one corner of his mouth turned up mischievously, “you know what they say.”
“What?”
“Three’s a crowd.”
She rolled her eyes and turned to leave.
“Holly, wait. I know I might sound flip, but this is serious.” His words—and his tone—made her pause with one hand on the doorknob. “Clark’s a first-class jack hole who deserves to be put in front of a firing squad. But he’s your past. It’s time to start thinking about your future.”
He crossed to her and squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve been alone long enough. And you might never get a chance like this again. Don’t you owe it to yourself to figure out what this crazy chemistry between you and People’s Sexiest Man Alive is about?”
She turned to him, tears threatening to spill over. “Damn you, Ethan. How am I supposed to stay mad at you when you say stuff like that?”
“You’re not.” He smiled, flashing a solitary dimple on his left cheek. “Just don’t let it get around. I’ve got a reputation as a tough guy to uphold.”
“If you say so.” With a final squeeze, she stepped out of his embrace and wiped her eyes.
“He’s staying at the Marquis.” He handed her a business card with the hotel’s address scrawled on the back. “Room 1008.”
4
HOLLY CHECKED THE card in her hand once more before knocking on the door: 1008. Good. She was in the right place.
Or the wrong place.
She exhaled loudly, shaking off her doubts, and knocked. She was there to talk. Just talk. She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake, not a hormonal teenager. She wasn’t going to be distracted by...
The door swung open and any thoughts of talking—not to mention her ability to talk at all—deserted her. Nick stood framed in the doorway, a skimpy hotel towel wrapped loosely around his waist. He was still damp from the shower, those washboard abs she’d speculated about earlier on full display.
So much for not being distracted.
He leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re not Garrett.”
“I-I’m sorry for barging in like this,” she stammered, finding her voice and trying not to ogle the firm, wet flesh of his bare chest and arms. She swallowed. Hard. “Guess I should have called first.”
“No, it’s...it’s fine.” He stepped back to wave her in and the towel slipped to his hips, giving her a view of the trail of fine, dark hair leading from his navel to the promised land. She licked her lips. “Just give me a minute to put something on.”
Don’t bother on my account.
“You can wait in here.” He led her into a sunken living room, complete with not one but two plush sofas and a Steinway piano, and disappeared into what she presumed was the bedroom.
Heart pounding, she wandered to the piano, setting her clutch down and fingering the keys. “Do you play?” she called out, desperate to fill the awkward silence.
“No,” he answered from the other room. “Garrett insisted I have the Presidential Suite. I’d have been happy in a regular guest room, but Garrett’s a top-of-the-line kind of guy.”
She left the piano and moved to a wall of windows overlooking Times Square, absorbing the spectacular view. Almost as spectacular as the view of Nick’s butt in that towel...
“He can be a jerk when things aren’t going his way, but I trust him,” Nick continued as he came back into the lounge. “He’s got my best interests at heart.”
Holly turned from the window to face him. Holy hotness, Batman! He’d zipped himself into another pair of jeans, just as snug as the ones he’d had on before but even more faded and ripped at one knee, and was buttoning a light gray sports shirt. He padded toward her on bare feet with the easy grace of a man comfortable in his own skin.
If she could bottle that self-confidence and sell it, she’d be a millionaire. Or maybe he could give her lessons....
He lowered himself onto one of the couches and motioned for her to join him, but she shook her head. She could barely think straight with him all the way across the room. She didn’t stand a chance up close and personal.
“So what brings you here?” he asked. “Ted and Judith send you to change my mind?”
She wanted to tell him the truth. Really, she did. But when she opened her mouth, something entirely different came out. “Not exactly. I, uh, wanted to apologize. For my behavior today in the conference room. I was inexcusably rude.”
He glanced at the platinum Rolex on his left wrist. “You came all the way across town at rush hour to apologize?” He leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. His biceps bulged beneath his shirt sleeves.
Her mouth went dry. Good Lord, the man was unsettling. “Well, yes. It was such a surprise, seeing you. I reacted...poorly.”
Right. And Shakespeare just scribbled down a few poems and plays.
“So you don’t want to strong-arm me into auditioning?” He fixed her with a piercing stare that she did her best to meet head-on.
“Do I look like I could strong-arm anyone?”
“You look...” the same eyes that had just tried to intimidate her with their intensity raked her up and down, leaving her tingling and breathless “...stunning.”
She shivered and stepped back, leaning against the piano for support. One word—one look—and she was ready to throw off her clothes and beg him to do her in every yoga position imaginable.
This was wrong. All wrong. She never should have come. How did Ted and Judith and especially Ethan expect her to keep her pants on when faced with a force of
nature like Nick? She wasn’t exactly a femme fatale. More like a poor man’s Cinderella, all dressed up for the ball, waiting for the stroke of midnight to reveal her as a complete fraud. Certainly no match for the charm and sophistication of Nick Damone.
“Thanks.” She wiped her clammy hands on the legs of her linen pants. “But all this—” she indicated her new hairdo, makeup and clothes “—it’s not really me. I’m more of a just-rolled-out-of-bed, jeans-and-T-shirt kind of gal. Nothing like the glamorous women you’re always photographed with.”
His smile put her in mind of a wolf eyeing a sheep before the kill. “Exactly.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that and she wasn’t dumb—or brave—enough to stick around and find out. “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She snatched her clutch off the piano. “Thanks for flying all the way out here to meet with us. I’m sorry it was all for nothing....”
“What does your husband think about you coming to my hotel room like this?”
“My...what?”
“You know, your husband. Mr. Ryan. The man you married.” He sat straighter, his eyes flashing. “Does he know you’re here?”
The last thing she wanted to discuss with Nick was her pathetic excuse for a husband. But she supposed she owed Nick the truth—or part of it.
“I don’t have a husband. Not anymore. I’m divorced.”
* * *
HOT DAMN!
Nick knew his reaction was wrong. No matter the circumstances, divorce wasn’t something to celebrate. But his head couldn’t reason with his heart, which was doing a little happy dance.
She. Wasn’t. Married.
Lusting after her from afar would have been torture. But now she was free. Fair game. They could work and play together.
Warning bells went off in the back of his head. She’s a forever kind of girl, Damone. And you don’t do forever. In fact, you don’t do relationships. Period.
But his happy-dancing heart—or maybe the dancing was coming from somewhere a bit farther south—drowned it out. There was no way he was passing up the second chance given to him by God, or fate, or whatever cosmic force had brought them together again.
Plus, if anyone could help him get past his learning disability and claim this role, it was her. Hell, she’d written the damn thing. She’d know the characters inside out. Plus, she was the smartest person he’d ever met. With her help, he’d wow Spielberg and everyone else in Hollywood who doubted his acting chops.
Nick smoothed down the front of his shirt and stretched one arm along the back of the couch. This could turn out to be his lucky break. In more ways than one.
“I’m sorry,” he said, surprised to find that a part of him really was. Not that she was available, but that she’d had to endure the pain that always came with divorce.
She shrugged, the hint of a smile playing around her lips. “I’m not.”
“Any kids?”
As suddenly as it appeared, the trace of a smile vanished and her eyes took on a distant look. “No.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” She sounded wistful.
“Divorce is hard on kids.” Although he was pretty sure his childhood would have been a damn sight better—or at least more peaceful—if his parents had split up.
“I suppose.” She shook her head as if to clear it, and a little of the spark crept back into her eyes. “Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of my failed marriage...” She started for the door.
He sank back into the sofa, crossing an ankle over one knee. “You honestly didn’t come here to get me to audition?”
She froze. “Are you always this suspicious?”
He shrugged. “Occupational hazard. You haven’t answered my question.”
“I do want you to audition. But it’s your decision, not mine.”
“That’s very Dr. Phil of you,” he said, sounding cynical even to his own ears. “But somehow I don’t think Ted and Judith share your concern for my feelings. If I were a betting man, and I am, I’d say they’re trying to cash in on our friendship.”
“I’m not privy to their innermost thoughts.” Holly drew herself up and pursed her lips. Man, she was hot when she went all schoolteacher. “And one conversation at a high school cast party hardly constitutes a friendship.”
Nick leaned forward, elbows on his knees, giving her the full force of his patented movie-star smile. “If memory serves, we did a little more than talk that night.”
“Did we?”
“Need a reminder?” He braced himself to stand.
“No!” She lost her grip on the ridiculously tiny sparkly thing she seemed to think was a purse, sending it clattering to the floor. “It’s been lovely catching up, but I’ve got another appointment.” She bent to pick it up so quickly she almost fell on her sweet little backside.
Oh, yeah. She remembered that kiss. And she’d been as turned on by it as much as he had.
Unfortunately, she was also on the run, halfway to the door.
He resisted the urge to jump up and grab her, not wanting to scare her any more than he already had. He needed to tone down the he-man antics if he had any hope of convincing her to stay. “Please stop.”
She didn’t.
“I was an ass.”
She hesitated, only inches from the door and freedom. “Now or then?”
“Both.”
She turned slowly, and met his gaze head-on. “Thank you.”
“Don’t go.” He slid over on the sofa, making room for her. “I’d like a chance to explain why I turned you down.” And that he’d since changed his mind.
“Now?” she asked with a smirk. “Or then?”
He winced. “Now.” He definitely wanted to focus on the present. Their present.
“I have another engagement.”
“No,” he said. “You don’t. Hear me out, Holly.”
She nodded stiffly, her already rosy cheeks deepening to a bright scarlet, and sat on the other couch, as far away from him as possible.
“Can I get you a drink? Or I can call room service if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” She took out her cell phone and glanced at the screen. “I can give you five minutes.”
Five minutes. Okay. He had this. He took a deep breath. “I walked out this afternoon because...” Because what? The air thinned when she was around? He couldn’t stop picturing her under him, panting? He wanted to pummel her ex-husband without even knowing the guy?
He stared at the place where her neck met her shoulder and tried like hell to think of something safe. Sunshine. Cotton candy. The box-office numbers from the last Savage picture.
“Is it the script?” she blurted. “I knew it. You don’t like the script.”
“That’s not it at all.” He got up and joined her on the other couch, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t shift away from him. “The script is brilliant. Moving and smart without being sappy. Not at all what I expected from a play dealing with domestic violence.”
She bristled and he knew he’d put his foot in his mouth. Again. “What did you expect? Some hackneyed, stereotypically pedantic melodrama?”
“To be honest, sweetheart, I don’t even know what half those words mean,” he joked, falling back on the dumb-jock routine he’d used in school to mask his learning disability. But he grew serious when he looked into her eyes, wide and stricken, filled with uncertainty.
He reached for her hand and was reminded of that night on the dock when their roles were reversed and he was the one unsure of his future, needing her encouragement. “But I do know a good script when I read one. And yours is good. Better than good.”
“If the script’s not the problem, then what is?” Damn, he could get lost in those deep green eyes.
“You’ve heard the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ right?”
“Of course, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Good.” And in a move of either sheer genius o
r monumental stupidity, he leaned in and kissed her, long and hard.
* * *
IT WAS HAPPENING AGAIN. Nick Damone was kissing her. And just like before, she couldn’t resist it. Couldn’t resist him. His touch, like a magnet, drawing her blood to the surface of her skin. His taste, like caramel, with a hint of Scotch.
Resist? Hell. Who was she kidding? She was responding to him like a sex-starved nympho. And while she’d admit to being sex-starved, she wasn’t a nymphomaniac. Yet. But if Nick kept kissing her like that...and that...and, oh, yes, that...
Everything else vanished into the vortex of Nick’s warm, hungry mouth. There was no play. No Ethan waiting for her to report on her mission. No Noelle or the rest of her family waiting to pick her up after yet another failure.
Only Nick.
Or, more specifically, Nick’s mouth, hot and insistent.
She hissed and arched into him as he skimmed a hand up her rib cage to her breast, cupping it through her blouse and brushing the soft silk across her nipple with his thumb. His other hand wound its way through her hair, keeping her head at the perfect angle for his heated kiss. He licked and nibbled and sucked at her lips from corner to corner until she thought she’d pass out from pure pleasure.
“Nick,” she panted when he finally paused to breathe. “I don’t think...”
“That’s right, sweetheart.” He disentangled his hand from her hair and with one finger traced the delicate shell of her ear. “Don’t think.” He followed his finger with his tongue. “Just feel.”
She was feeling, all right. For the first time since—well, long before her divorce—she was wild for a man. This man. The way his breath sent a current down her ear. The pricks on her skin from the scruff of his beard, lighting a path down.
Down.
And the hand on her breast... Oh, Lord. She shuddered as he teased first one, then the other, through her blouse, until her already aching nipples puckered into tight little buds.
“God...Nick.” Her head fell back, giving him greater access to the line of her neck. He drew a hot, wet trail from the sensitive spot behind her ear to the hollow at the base of her throat.
“So soft,” he murmured against her skin, wrapping his arms around her. “So sweet.” He pulled her closer, stroking her back until she was pressed against him so intimately she could feel every hard, solid inch of him. Especially the hard, solid inches pushing on her girl parts and making them all warm and tingly.