by Janet Dailey
“I’m glad you suggested this, John T.,” she said in a sighing voice, then straightened her head to look at him. “The hot tub, the snow, the champagne-it’s all deliciously decadent. I love it.”
“I hoped you would.” Watching her, John realized that he’d never derived this much pleasure out of pleasing someone else.
“Do you know what this reminds me of?” she said softly, suddenly conscious of the exquisite silence that surrounded them, that blocked out all but the frothing tumble of water in the tub. “One of those globes of glass with a miniature winter scene inside that you shake to make the snow dance inside it. Right now, it’s like you and I are in that enchanted world.”
When she met his gaze, the glow in her eyes more than he could resist. He pushed his champagne glass onto the shelf and simultaneously took hers set it aside, pulling her toward him.
“Then enchant me,” he urged against her mouth.
He nibbled at her lips, teasing without taking them, and Kit returned his tiny, biting kisses. There was something innocent and stimulating in the exchange, something that promised that this was only a prelude. She knew John sensed it, too, when she felt the subtle change in his breathing.
“Enchanted yet?” She rubbed her parted lips over his mouth.
“Maybe you’d better try harder.”.” He sought to capture her lips, and kit smiled, fully aware she was playing with fire and not caring. Every playful kiss sent more languid waves of warmth washing through her, waves as warm as the heated water swirling around both of them.
At last his mouth seized hers with a branding ardor that sent her reeling. A second later, an elemental hunger took its place as he began to devour her lips, sampling their softness and exploring there inner recesses. It was a sensually powerful kiss that precisely underlined the reputation of the man behind it.
She kissed him back, relishing the sensation of his hand gliding down her spine and onto the flare of her hip, before traveling up to cup her breast. When he rubbed his palm over its taut nipple, she suddenly found it impossible to breathe.
Aching all over, Kit arched closer, their legs briefly tangling in the water. Then his arm was curving, lifting, drawing her up to straddle his thigh, sitting high out of water. He started kissing her throat and shoulder, then worked his way downtown the swell of her breast flowing out of the swimsuit bra. When he fastened his mouth on its hard nipple, sucking at it through the wet fabric, she moaned at the sweetness of the pain.
Then his lips made the climb back to her throat, while his fingers tugged at the top’s ribbon tie. She felt the material go slack. Another tug and the turbulent water swept it away.
“Have you ever felt the snow on your breasts, Kit?” he whispered against her ear, then nipped at the lobe with his teeth. “Have you ever felt their icy touch, felt them melt?”
“No,” she whispered back, her voice thick.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her with him when he pushed up, water sluicing from their bodies, the cold night air washing over their heated skin. John sank back against the rim of the tub, feet braced, his hands firm on the slick skin over her hipbones.
“Feel it?” He looked at her, his eyes heavy-lidded and hungry. “Feet the snow.”
White flakes drifted between them and on them. Crystalline drops glistened in his hair. Locking her gaze with his, she arched her back slightly, feeling the snow’s icy kisses on her skin.
The motion lifted her pale breasts, her nipples dark and pointy in the dim light. He brushed them with his fingertip, feeling her start slightly. Drawing her closer, he drew a circle around a nipple with his tongue, then felt her convulsive shudder when he took it into his mouth.
A discreet cough sounded, then came again, louder, more insistent. When John dragged his mouth away, Kit rested her forehead on his shoulder and laughed softly, shakily.
Nolan Walker stood between the tall hedges that screened the heated walk between the private terrace and the house, his back turned to the hot tub. John glared just the same.
“What is it, Nolan?”
“Lassiter wants you. He’s on the phone.”
John swore softly, his hands unconsciously moving with longing over the bareness of her shoulder blades. “Kit-” he began, his voice low and oddly gruff.
She pressed the ends of her fingers onto his lips, silencing him. “It’s okay,” she murmured, a faint curve to her mouth, rather liking the idea that he was concerned that she wouldn’t understand.
He smiled back, in thanks. A second later, he said to Nolan, “Tell Lassiter I’ll be right there.”
The bush of falling snow magnified the sound of Nolan’s retreating footsteps, making Kit even more aware of how absorbed she had been in John’s embrace. His hands shifted to her rib cage and set her back from him while he straightened to climb out of the tub.
His hand reached back for her. “This could take a while, he warned. “You’d better come in, too.” He helped her out, then leaned back over the tub and scooped her top out of the tumbling water. “You’ll need this, I think.” He smiled.
Kit took the top, but she didn’t bother to put the sodden bit of cloth back on. Instead, she donned the plush terry robe of Egyptian cotton she’d worn from the house. John slipped into a shorter version, with a monogrammed pocket.
With arms hooked around each other’s waist, they padded barefoot along the heated stone path to the house, entering through the lower level and passing through the fully equipped gym and sauna area, then climbing the white stairs to the second floor. Kit walked with him as far as the study door.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Want me to have Carla bring you coffee? Cocoa?”
She shook her head. “I’m fine. Go.” She gave him a tiny push toward the study door.
When the door closed behind him, she turned indecisively. The game room was directly opposite the study, its doors open wide. Accepting the invitation, Kit wandered in, her bare feet quickly sinking into the thick alpaca rug on the floor. One glance and it was obvious that Nolan, Chip, or Abe had taken over half of the room for an office area. The poker table was covered with a careless array of memos, schedules, and other important-looking paperwork. More was stacked on the chairs around it.
Wisely, Kit aimed for the billiard table and the pair of plump chairs upholstered in creamy corduroy that faced the brown marble fireplace beyond it. As she started to give the cue ball a roll across the green slate top, she noticed a script lying on the mahogany edge near the middle pocket. A yellow Post-it was taped to the cover. The words “Revised draft approved by Olympic” were scrawled across it and dated four days ago.
The revised script for White Lies. She hadn’t received her copy yet.
“I wonder what changes Chip made.” Curious, she fanned through the first few pages, then shrugged and picked it up.
She curled up in one of the chairs by the fireplace and began to skim through the script. Twenty pages in, she pressed her lips together. The more she read, the more tightly she pressed them, the pull of the corners growing grimmer and grimmer.
When she finished it, she swung out of the chair and crossed to the window. She stood stiffly in front of it, staring at the steady fall of white powder, her hands gripping the script. She was still there when John walked in.
He came up behind her, his hands moving onto the rounded points of her shoulders as he bent to nuzzle her neck. “Sorry.”
She spun around to face him, holding out the script. “Is this the draft we’ll be shooting from?” she asked in a tightly controlled voice.
John glanced at the cover note and nodded. “The approval came in a few days ago.”
“How could you do it?” Kit exploded. “How could Chip do it? You’ve destroyed the story. You’ve destroyed everything that made it unique and-“
“You’re overreacting, Kit.”
“Overreacting? You’ve turned Eden into a murderess. You have her killing her husband. She’s a cliche. This story is a cliche-a reha
sh of a dozen other films.”
“It’s a formula that works.” He turned away, digging into the pocket of his robe for his pack of cigarettes, needing one.
“But this isn’t the script you bought,” she argued, pacing over to the billiard table. “This isn’t the story that excited you enough to buy it.”
“Maybe not, but it’s the story Olympic wants.” He snapped the lighter to his cigarette and drew a quick deep puff on it. “They’re paying for it, they’re distributing it, and they’re calling the shots. They decided the original script was too risky; they wanted a proven formula, and they got it.”
“That’s it. That’s all you can say.” Her hand made an angry sweep through the air. “The story goes to hell, but so what? Is that it?”
After a twenty-minute session with Lassiter, he had no more patience left. “Grow up, Kit,” he snapped. “In this business, when it comes to a choice between the bottom line and the storyline, the storyline is always going to suffer.”
She threw the script down. “Grow up? Don’t you mean ‘give up’? Just forget that I believed in the story and bow my head in acceptance the way you have.”
“Damn it, Kit. I had no choice.”
“No choice?” She stormed across the room. “You could have told them to take their money, their distribution, their bottom line, and go to hell.”
“You don’t understand, Kit.” He fought to get a grip on his temper. “I need this picture.”
“Olympic isn’t the only studio in town.”
“What the hell makes you think any other studio would want that script?” he shouted back. “Chip peddled it over half the town before I saw it. What the hell does that tell you?”
“That tells me you never tried.”
“Damn it, my picture deal is with Olympic. Even if I could take the script somewhere else-” He stopped, dragging in a deep breath and forcing his voice down. “I’m in no position to dictate terms or conditions. John Travis may be a big star in the public’s eye, but I’m on damned shaky ground in Hollywood. I need a hit. A big hit. I get that and I’m back in control. I can tell Lassiter to go to hell and make him like it. Until then, I have to play the game by his rules, just like you and, everyone else.”
She stood before him, her arms rigid at her sides and her hands clenched in tight fists, a definite snap to her eyes. “I don’t think much of your game or the way it’s played.”
“Then leave the table,” he shot back.
Her face went cool, her eyebrows arching. “Now, there’s a thought.”
Turning on her heel, she walked out of the room. In the guest room, she changed back into her sweater and slacks, grabbed her purse and coat, and headed for the front door. John was there when she reached it. His narrowed gaze centered briefly on the coat she’d thrown over her arm.
“You’re not leaving, Kit.”
Temper was licked its way to the surface again. “Wanna bet?” She challenged.
He blocked her when she tried to move past him to the door. “Look.” He tried to force some reason into his own angry voice. “I know you’re disappointed with the change in-“
“Disappointed doesn’t begin to cover it. In fact, I’m in the mood to start throwing things and you would make a lovely target. So get out of the way.”
This time, John didn’t try to stop her.
The Jeep charged through the three inches of powder that covered the streets. Instinct guided the hands at the wheel to make all the right turns as Kit left Starwood, her eyes on the road and the steady fall of snow in the Jeep’s headlight beams, her thoughts still on her argument with John.
“At least now I understand why Chip was giving John such a problem over the script’s changes, she muttered, continuing the steady stream of conversation she’d carried on with herself ever since she’d driven away from John’s house. “God. How could Chip butcher his own story like that? Whatever made him do it?”
She tightened her grip on the steering wheel and tried to give it a hard shake, wishing it was Chip she had, by the shoulders so she could shake some sense into him. Then it hit her.
“Chip’s a director first and a writer second. If he was given an ultimatum-change the story or forget about directing the film-he would have changed it.” Kit sighed with a mixture of tiredness, frustration, and defeat. “He would have kicked and screamed and dragged his feet all the way, but he would sacrifice it before he would give up the chance to direct a major film. Oh, Chip,” she murmured sadly and swung the Jeep onto the highway.
Snowplows had already scraped away all but a dusting of freshly fallen flakes from the highway that cut through Aspen. Kit drove along it, falling silent. The traffic light ahead turned red. She slowed the Jeep to a stop and waited, her attention finally straying to her surroundings.
The Hotel Jerome rose tall and proud through the veil of snow, lavishly restored and refurbished to once again reign over the corner of Mill and Main as it had one hundred years earlier. Yet, so different from the Jerome she remembered as a girl, its blue eyebrows no longer raised at the goings-on around it.
On impulse, not even certain of her reason, Kit turned right onto Miff and drove until her way was blocked by the start of the pedestrian mall. She shifted into park and let the engine idle, her hands sliding together at the top of the steering wheel. Leaning forward, she rested her chin against them and gazed at the scene before her.
Snow blanketed the bricked thoroughfare and frosted the trees scattered along it. The white of their branches glistened. More flakes drifted down, creating a setting that was iced and glamorous, a winter wonderland that didn’t seem quite real.
As her gaze wandered to the lighted shop windows that faced the mall, she tried to remember what the area had been like when she was growing up and the streets had still been dirt. But, too much had changed, too many new buildings replaced old ones-new buildings designed to look old and ageless like the Jerome and the Wheeler Opera House.
Aspen had changed, yet it still looked like the ideal place to live. Except it wasn’t ideal. Bannon had shown her that. He’d shown her it was only ideal if you could afford to live here.
She remembered, too, his efforts to change that. Bucking the tide, fighting the system, refusing to regard it as inevitable, refusing to give in, to give up. When he believed in something, there was no compromise in him. He stood by it to the last.
Not like John.
Bannon was like the boy with his thumb in the hole in the dike, trying to hold back the flood until help arrived.
Only this wasn’t Hollywood, even though it looked like a Hollywood set. No cavalry would come charging in to save the day. It was the real world. John would have been quick to remind her of that.
A bright light flashed its glare into her eyes. Blinking against its harshness, Kit glanced out the driver’s-side window. A patrol car was alongside her Jeep. The officer on the passenger side signaled for her to roll down her window. Hastily, she complied.
“Are you waiting for someone, miss?” He played the light over her face.
“No. No, I’m not.” She held up a hand to partially shield her eyes from its brightness. “I was just looking at the mall and the snow.”
“You’re blocking the street. You’ll have to move along.”
“Of course.” She nodded and shifted gears, driving off under their watchful eyes and making the swing back onto the highway and home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A dusting of snow collected on the crown and rolled brim of Bannon’s Stetson. He walked along the lighted street at a slow and easy gait, his lined parka unbuttoned to the still night air that felt pleasantly cool rather than cold. Beside him, Pete Ranovitch took a quick drag of his cigarette, one of a string he’d chain-smoked over the course of the evening. His bare head was bowed, the collar of his coat turned up to ward off the falling snow. His left arm was in a sling, a plaster cast covering it from the thumb to above the bend of his elbow.
“Need a lift, Pe
te?” Only lengthy negotiations, Pete’s personal check for three hundred dollars, and a promise from Bannon to make the check good himself if it bounced had persuaded the owner of the bar not to press charges.
“No. My Bronco’s parked a couple of blocks from here,” he said, then expelled a fragment of a humorless laugh. “Assuming it hasn’t been stolen or towed off. That’d be just my luck, wouldn’t it?” He puffed on the cigarette again, then lowered it with a cupping hand. “I meant it, Bannon. I’m through trying. I’m leaving. When I get back to that apartment, I’m throwing my things in the back end of the Bronco and pulling out tonight. It’s no use kidding myself anymore that I’m ever gonna have a restaurant of my own. I’m not. Not in this lifetime. That dream’s over for me. I’m tired, Bannon. I’m just flat-assed tired.”
Part of him wanted to argue with Pete to hold on a little longer. But he respected his decision, recognizing that Pete was the one who had to live with it. “Where will you go?”
“I got a friend working in a restaurant down in Telluride. I’ll probably go visit him for a couple of days, then…find myself a job somewhere once I get this cast off.”
Bannon’s pickup was parked at the curb, its black color hidden by a coating of snow. He stopped and held out a hand to Pete. “Good luck, Pete. If you decide to come back this way, I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“You’re the one damned thing about this town I’m going to miss. I owe you a helluva lot, Bannon.” His fingers closed around Bannon’s hand with a fierce grip.
“Send the recipe for your barbecue sauce.”
“I’ll do it,” he promised and jaywalked to the other side of the street.
Bannon watched him for a minute, then climbed into the pickup’s cab and fished the keys out of his jacket pocket. He started the engine up, let it idle a minute, then pulled away from the curb, windshield wipers flapping at the snow blowing off the truck’s hood.
With the lights of the town behind him, he thought about Pete and some of the others he’d known. He’d watched the dreams of so many die a little bit at a time, bled away by successive failures, bad luck, or the fading of spirit. For a time they’d repeat the old words of faith, of hope, until finally one day the words would be empty.