by Regina Kyle
Something had scared her off that day in his hotel room. One minute she’d been all over him, meeting his tongue thrust for thrust and grinding against him so hard he’d almost shot his load then and there. The next she was running for the door. He’d waited long enough to find out what had spooked her. Today he was getting some answers.
* * *
OH, CRAP.
Holly’s stomach sank as she saw Nick stalking toward her, his forehead creased, the lips that had kissed her so wantonly pressed together.
“Excuse me, Malcolm,” she said, interrupting another of his self-absorbed stories. This one, as far as she could tell, was building up to how he’d outsmarted Scorsese. “I’d better see if Ethan and the others have any questions.”
“Justice.” Nick cut in before she could break away. “You won’t mind if I steal our illustrious author for a few minutes.”
Malcolm reached for Holly’s wrist but she shook him off. “As a matter of fact, I would.”
“And why is that?”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Damone.”
“I’m making it my business.”
“Not if I can help it.”
“Stop, both of you!” Holly’s head ached from pinging back and forth between them. “You’re acting like a couple of overgrown frat boys, arguing over me as if I weren’t standing right in front of you.”
They continued to glare at each other over her head for a moment, making her feel a little like a choice sirloin in the middle of two hungry dogs. Was it possible to be flattered and disgusted at the same time?
Nick was the one to finally concede the staring contest. “Holly.” He put a hand on her elbow, his touch not demanding but imploring, those beautiful brown eyes sucking her in closer. Heat spread from his fingers to her traitorous girlie bits. “I just need a few minutes of your time. To...discuss my role.”
“Don’t you mean ‘show you my etchings’?” Malcolm leered.
Nick’s attention didn’t waver from Holly. “Please.”
If he had begged, pleaded, ranted, raved—anything but that one simple, quiet word—she could have fought him.
Two more weeks. That’s all she needed. Then they’d be in the Deville, the theater they’d call home for the foreseeable future. She’d be able to keep her distance from him in that cavern, her in the house with the rest of the creative team and him up onstage or in the wings.
But no. He’d managed to corner her today in the cramped rehearsal room, all intense and brooding and yeah, mouthwateringly hot in a Mr. Darcy kind of way, with those puppy-dog eyes and his hair flopping over his brows, a tad long and just this side of presentable.
“You don’t have to go with him, Holly.” Malcolm went for her wrist again but she managed to sidestep him. Ugh. He was a good actor, she’d give him that. Good-looking, too, although he didn’t make her stammer like a fool or bump into the furniture. That was apparently reserved for Nick.
But as talented and handsome as he was, Malcolm couldn’t take a hint to save his life. She’d told him flat-out that she wasn’t interested in him. But he still insisted on hounding her, at her side practically every time she turned around. The only plus was it had kept Nick at bay. Until now.
“It’s okay.” As if she really had a choice. Better to get it over with, painful but quick. “We won’t be long.”
“You’re going to let this guy—”
“I’m not going to ‘let’ him do anything.” She gave a meaningful look to both men. After Clark—and a fair amount of therapy—she’d made up her mind not to let any man have that kind of power over her ever again. And these two were no exception. She was the one calling the shots now. “But I am going to talk to him.”
Nick’s hand on her elbow gently navigated her to the door as he called over his shoulder to Malcolm, “Tell Ethan we’ll be down the hall, in studio G. If we’re not back in time, start without us.”
“I’m not your errand boy, Damone.”
“Then have Sean or Seth do it. It’s a step above the crap you usually palm off on them.” Nick continued down the hall, pulling Holly along with him. He didn’t speak again until they were inside the room with the door closed.
“Start talking.”
She arched a brow at him. “What?”
“You told Justice you were going to talk to me. So talk.”
“About your role?”
“You know damn well that’s not why I brought you here.”
“I’m not a mind reader.” She shook his hand off her elbow and stepped away from him, making her raging hormones scream in protest. Not to mention her conscience. Giving Nick the cold shoulder went against every rule of politeness and common decency she’d had drummed into her since childhood. But it was a matter of self-preservation, pure and simple. “If this isn’t about the show, we have nothing to discuss.”
“Like hell we don’t.” He crossed his arms, looking yummy with his long denim-clad legs braced apart, his biceps straining at his shirt sleeves.
“What do you want from me, Nick?”
“I want to know what kind of game you’re playing.”
“Game?”
“First me. Now Justice.” Nick’s eyes were narrowed, his lips tight.
Holly gaped at him. He was jealous! Nick Damone was actually jealous. Over her. She covered her mouth and let out a giggle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just wondering about the pigs.”
“Pigs?” The tension around his eyes relaxed and his mouth curved into the tiniest hint of a smile.
The ones that must be flying over the Manhattan skyline. “Never mind.” She scraped her hands through her hair. He made her crazy. “Look, nothing’s going on between me and Malcolm. Or me and you, for that matter.”
“You sure about that?” His wicked chocolate eyes, almost black with need, lasciviously perused her from head to toe and back again.
“Yes,” she choked out through a heavy swallow, her heart racing.
“You can’t run forever, Holly.”
She sighed, knowing he was right. “I can sure as heck try.”
“You’re going to have to try a lot harder to shake me, sweetheart.” He pushed off the doorframe, chest muscles rippling under his tight T-shirt—darn it if her own chest didn’t rise to attention—and started toward her.
She took two steps back—straight into a table.
“See?” He inched one leg between hers and braced a hand on the tabletop. “No more running.”
“It certainly seems that way.” She took a deep breath meant to steady her. Instead it brought her closer to him, brushing her already aching nipples against his rock-hard pecs and making her shiver.
“So you’re ready to admit defeat?”
She raised herself up on tiptoe, her lips only inches from his. “I—”
The door flung open to reveal Wes, back from his errand, red-faced and wheezing.
“Nick, Holly! Come quick! You’re not gonna believe this!”
“What is it?” Holly silently thanked the powers that be for the interruption.
“The Deville’s on fire!”
6
HOLLY STARED, GLASSY-EYED and numb, at the TV screen above the bar, showing the smoldering Deville for the umpteenth time. How could she be dead-tired and wide-awake at the same time?
The fire was out but the damage was done. They’d never find another theater before losing their cast.
Two years of planning. Up in smoke.
She tapped her glass on the gleaming oak bar. “Can I get a refill, Devin?”
“You sure?” The bartender grabbed the remote from under the counter and switched the channel to one of the sports networks. Baseball. Much better, even if the Yankees were getting spanked by the Blue Jays. “It’s a lot stronger than your usual.”
“I’m sure.” After today, she needed something way more potent than a mudslide.
“Okay.” Devin grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind her a
nd poured two fingers of rich amber liquid into Holly’s glass. “But after this I’m switching you to Kahlúa and milk.”
“Killjoy.” Holly took a sip and coughed. Why anyone drank Scotch was beyond her. But tonight she wanted—no, needed—to get drunk, so Scotch it was.
“Looks to me like there’s not much joy to kill.”
Holly sighed. Her friend was right. Tonight there was no joy in Mudville. Flighty Holly had struck out.
Watching the Deville burn on the news had been surreal. The cast and crew had all huddled around Ethan’s laptop, silent. A few of them had wanted to head over to the theater, but Ted and Judith—when they weren’t sniping at each other—convinced them they’d only get in the way. After about a dozen replays, they’d sent almost everyone home with the promise of an email by morning. Only Holly, Ethan and the company manager had stayed, frantically calling every theater in a twenty-block radius.
The Helen Hayes was too small. The Gershwin too big. The Lyceum was just right but unavailable. As were the Cort, the Booth and the Walter Kerr. Four hours of speed dialing and all they had to show for it were sore fingers and an air of desperation.
“Go home, Holly,” Ethan had ordered when she laid her head on the table and let gravity and fatigue keep it there. “We’ve got things covered here. I’ll call you if anything pans out.”
She pushed herself upright on leaden arms. There had to be something more she could do. Make a latte run. Recharge phones. Pay a visit to someone and beg.
Oh, wait. She’d already done that with Nick, and look where that had gotten her.
Ethan had won out in the end. Sort of. She’d gone, but not home. Instead, she’d stopped by Naboombu, the cozy underground bar around the corner from her East Village apartment, where Devin Padilla, her upstairs neighbor and best NYC gal pal, tended bar. If Holly was going to drown her sorrows, she could count on Devin to drag her home.
They made an odd pair. Holly, the suburban-housewife refugee. Devin, with her multiple piercings and tattoos. But Devin’s recent bad breakup had required just as much ice cream as Holly’s divorce, and they’d commiserated over multiple pints of Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra.
“So what happens now?” Devin picked up a cloth and swirled circles down the length of the bar.
Holly knocked down another swig of Scotch. “Beats me.”
She checked her cell phone for what must have been the hundredth time. No messages. Four bars. And yes, the ringer was on high. “But if this show goes belly-up before it even opens, it’ll take years for me to get another shot at Broadway.”
“Why? It’s not your fault the place burned down.”
“That’s not the point. The fire’s just the latest—and worst—in a string of catastrophes. It’s like the show’s doomed. No one’s going to want to take a chance on it. Or on me.”
A man at the opposite end of the bar raised his empty mug and eyeballed Devin. With a sympathetic look at Holly, she tossed the cloth onto her shoulder and went to refill the guy’s beer, leaving Holly alone with her Scotch and fatalistic attitude. A dangerous combination, if there ever was one. What if they couldn’t find another theater? What if the show had to be canceled? What if Nick left town and they never got a chance to finish what they’d started in his hotel room?
Stop. Wait. Whoa. Where the heck had that come from? Holly downed the rest of her Scotch, hoping the burning sensation would erase her last thought. It didn’t.
She so did not want to go there, but once her brain started down that dangerous path, her thoughts filled with images of her and Nick. Naked, sweaty and entwined.
It was official. She was an idiot. She’d had the man of her dreams in the palm of her hand—literally, she thought, remembering the feel of his smooth, bare chest—and she’d blown it. What was she so worried about? Her scars? Badges of honor. She was a survivor of domestic violence and should be proud of it, not hiding like a scared rabbit. The fact that she and Nick were working together? Big deal. Coworkers hooked up all the time. Wasn’t Noelle always going on about the affaires de coeur in the corps de ballet?
And that point would be moot soon anyway. Without a theater, there wouldn’t be a show. And without a show, she’d be collecting unemployment. Or walking dogs again, her family whispering behind her back about the demise of yet another one of “Holly’s follies.” Nick would go back to playing superheroes for billions. Or maybe he’d branch out into ancient warriors or Greek gods.
“You think too much.” Devin was back, replacing Holly’s empty glass with a tumbler of foamy white liquid. “I’m afraid to ask what’s going on in there sometimes.”
“Don’t.” Holly sipped the frothy concoction, hoping the rich, sweet taste would obliterate the lingering flavor of the Scotch and the memory of Nick’s kiss.
“Whatever it is, I’m jealous.” Devin strong-armed a tray of glasses onto the bar and grabbed a clean towel to wipe them dry. “I could swear there’s steam rising off your skin.”
“It’s steamy, all right.”
“Then it must involve your Hottie McHothot movie star.”
“He is not my movie star.” Holly shook her head, regretting her decision in a moment of girl-bonding over a True Blood marathon to tell Devin about her renewed obsession with Nick.
“But he could be.”
“What makes you say that?”
Devin smiled and waved her towel at the door. “He just walked in.”
“Not funny.” But normally cool, biker-tough Devin was beaming like an awestruck fangirl. Holly’s stomach dropped.
“No way,” she whispered.
“Way,” Devin mouthed back.
Holly spun on her stool, and there was Nick walking toward her, nine kinds of fine in a black leather jacket, heather-gray T-shirt and his customary jeans, faded and seemingly shrink-wrapped to his thighs. In a few strides, he crossed the narrow bar and was at her side.
“Okay if I sit here?”
Those five words took her back fifteen years. She eyed Nick, wondering if he realized he’d said the same thing to her on the dock that night?
“Feel free,” she answered, trying to sound indifferent. Not an easy feat when just the sound of his voice made her whole body hum like a tuning fork. At least this time she’d managed more than “Uh, yeah.”
And then he was next to her. Sitting. Leaning. His knee brushed hers, ratcheting the hum up to a dull roar.
Devin ditched the towel and leaned against the bar, giving Nick an eyeful of her ample cleavage. “What can I get you?”
“Traitor,” Holly muttered, shooting daggers at her. Devin smiled and shrugged as if to say, You’re not interested. That makes him fair game. Right?
Right, Holly told herself. Not interested. Fair game. No matter what her mutinous, pulsating body said.
“Scotch.” Nick placed his order, either completely oblivious to her back-and-forth with Devin or totally ignoring it. “Neat. Macallan, if you have it.”
“We might. For you.” Devin swept a hand through her long dark hair and Holly fought the urge to leap over the bar and tackle her. “Let me check the boss’s private stock.”
“How come he gets the good stuff?” Holly complained.
Nick shifted in his seat and his leg brushed hers again, shooting her pulse into the red zone. “Maybe because I can tell the difference.”
“There’s that,” Devin cooed, batting her thick, full eyelashes at him. The hussy. “Plus, you’re prettier than her. And you asked real polite. Besides,” she continued, turning to Holly, “I’ve been watering yours down when you weren’t looking. Otherwise you’d be on the floor by now. No bartender worth her salt would do that to Macallan.”
“Amen to that.” Nick raised a mock glass in salute.
“Thanks a lot,” Holly grumbled. No wonder she didn’t feel wasted.
“You kids play nice until I get back,” Devin called over her shoulder as she sashayed around the bar. “And if Frankie down there at the end wants another, tell him
he’s cut off.”
“As if,” Holly fired back but not quickly enough. Devin disappeared down the hall leading to the office and storage room.
“Friend of yours?” Nick asked.
“Yeah. You can autograph her chest later.” Holly toyed with the swizzle stick in her drink. “How did you find me?”
“Ethan. He gave me your address. Said if you weren’t there, you’d probably be here.”
Wow. He’d wormed her address out of Ethan—which, okay, probably wasn’t that hard—trekked all the way downtown, then followed her to Naboombu. All so he could... What? Hold her hand? Dry her tears? Or maybe he planned to console her more...intimately.
Holly’s breath quickened at the thought and she pressed her cold glass against her cheek in a vain attempt to stop the flush she felt from spreading across her face. Did Nick still want her? Was that why he’d tracked her down? And what if he did?
“I spoke with Ted.”
Nick’s voice was like a bucket of cold water doused over her head. Of course, he was here to discuss the show. “Any progress?” she asked hopefully.
He shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. Everything suitable is booked until fall. Which wouldn’t be so bad, except...”
“Except if we wait that long we risk losing you.”
“Unfortunately.”
“And Malcolm.”
“Now, that would be tragic,” he drawled.
Devin came back with Nick’s Scotch and they drank silently while she went to handle Frankie, who was banging his mug impatiently on the bar.
Nick was the one to break the silence. “I’m sorry, Holly,” he said. “I wish...”
“I know.” After a long pause, she asked, “Will you go back to L.A.?”
“Dunno. Probably.” He leaned back, swirling the Scotch around in his glass. “Maybe make a quick stop home first.”
“Stockton?”
He nodded and stared into his drink.
“When was the last time you were there?”