by Nora Roberts
“I’m sorry.” She cleared the huskiness out of her voice. “I must have dozed off.”
She’d slept like a rock for half an hour. He’d tucked her up himself. “How do you feel?”
“Embarrassed.”
He smiled and rose to go to the coffeepot he’d set on a warmer. “Want this now?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“You didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“No.” She took the coffee, studying the little painted cup as though it fascinated her. “Neither did you.”
“I didn’t put in a ten-hour day.” He sat beside her. She was up like a spring.
“I’m starving,” she said quickly. “There isn’t much out in the kitchen, but I can put together a couple of sandwiches.”
“I’ll give you a hand.”
Even as he rose, she was shrugging out of her jacket. “That’s all right, it’s no trouble.” Nervous, she turned the jacket over, spilling out the contents of the pockets. Sam bent over and picked up loose change, a hairpin and what was left of the roll of antacids.
“What do you need these for?”
“Survival.” Taking everything from him, she set them on the table.
“You put yourself under too much pressure. How many of these do you take?”
“For heaven’s sake, Sam, they’re more candy than medicine.”
Her defensive tone had his eyes narrowing. Too many, he decided. “I’m entitled to worry about you.” When she started to shake her head, he cupped her chin in his hand. “Yes, I am. I love you, Johanna, whether you can deal with it yet or not.”
“You’re pushing me too fast.”
“I haven’t even started to push yet.”
With her face still caught in his hand, he kissed her. His lips demanded response, nothing timid, nothing cool. She could taste the trace of anger on them, the hint of frustration. Desire, kicked into high gear by other emotions, held sway. If it had been possible, she would have pulled back, ended it then and there. But it wasn’t possible.
She touched a hand to his cheek, not even aware that she sought to soothe. As the kiss deepened, she slid her hand up into his hair. His name was like a sigh from her lips to his. Then she was locked close.
It was the whirlwind again, fast and furious. This time it was she who tugged at his shirt, wanting that contact, that intimate, secret feel of flesh against flesh. Her need was a springboard for his. Tangled, groping at buttons, they tumbled onto the couch.
Even last night, in that first burgeoning passion, she hadn’t been like this. She trembled as she had trembled before, but now it was anticipation, even impatience, that shivered through her. To be swept away wasn’t what she looked for now; to be taken wasn’t enough. It had only taken one night for her to realize her own power. Now she was driven to test it again.
He struggled to keep his hands gentle as the insistence of hers had desire clawing at him. Her mouth, open and hungry, sought the taste of him, chest, shoulders, throat, while she tugged at the snap of his jeans and sent his stomach muscles dancing.
“Johanna.” As much for her preservation as his own, he tried to slow the pace. Then her mouth was back on his, silencing him, ripping the last shreds of control.
The last light of day streamed through the windows of a room scented by flowers in a house tucked almost secretly in the hills. As long as he lived he would think of her that way—in soft light, in fresh scents, alone.
She hadn’t known she could be like this, so full of need, so desperate to be filled. Heedless, daring, reckless. She felt the teddy he’d slipped so carefully from her the night before tear as he yanked aside the barrier.
Then she captured him, drawing him in, arching high as pleasure arrowed into her. Fast, then faster still, she drove them both in a race for that final dazzling release.
He held on to her, even after her body went lax, after his own emptied. Her shyness had delighted him, lured him, but this Johanna, the one who could flash with white heat, could make him a slave. He wasn’t certain what he’d done, he only remembered the grasping, titanic lunge into delirium.
“Did I hurt you?” he murmured.
“No.” She was too stunned by her own behavior to notice any bruises. “Did I hurt you?”
He grinned against her throat. “I didn’t feel a thing.” He tried to shift her to a more comfortable position and spotted the remains of her teddy on the floor. “I owe you some lingerie,” he murmured as he lifted it up.
Johanna studied the torn strap and rent seam. Abruptly she began to laugh. She felt like that, torn open, and God only knew what would pour through the holes. “I’ve never attacked a man before,” she managed.
“You can practice on me anytime. Here.” He picked up his shirt and slipped it over her shoulders. “I always seem to be lending you a shirt. Johanna, I want you to tell me how you feel. I need you to.”
Slowly, hoping to gather up some of her scattered senses, she buttoned the shirt. “There are reasons . . . I can’t talk about them, Sam, but there are reasons why I don’t want things to get serious.”
“Things already are serious.”
He was right. She knew he was right even before she looked into his eyes and felt it. “How serious?”
“I think you know. But I’m willing to spell it out for you again.”
She wasn’t being fair. It was so important, and sometimes so impossible, to be fair. There was too much she couldn’t tell him, she thought. Too much he’d never be able to understand even if she could. “I need time.”
“I’ve got a couple of hours.”
“Please.”
“All right.” It wasn’t easy, but he promised himself he’d give her time, even though he felt it slipping away. He tugged on his jeans, then remembered the basket. “I almost forgot. I brought you a present.” He plucked up the basket and set it in her lap.
He wasn’t going to push. She shot him a quick look of gratitude, then added a smile. “What, a picnic?” She flipped back the lid, but instead of cold chicken she saw a small dozing kitten. Johanna drew her out and was instantly in love. “Oh, Sam! She’s adorable.” The kitten mewed sleepily as she rubbed its rust-colored fur against her cheek.
“Blanche had a litter last month.” He tickled the kitten’s ears.
“Blanche? As in Dubois?”
“Now you’re catching on. She’s sort of a faded Southern belle who likes to pit the toms against each other. This one’s weaned, and there’s enough cat food in the basket to get you through about a week.”
The kitten climbed down the front of her skirt and began to fight with one of the buttons. “Thank you.” Johanna turned to him as he stroked the kitten’s head. For the first time, she threw her arms around Sam’s neck and hugged him.
9
He knew he shouldn’t be nervous. It was an excellent production, with a quality script, top-notch casting and a talented director. He’d already seen the rushes, as well as a preview of the press screening. He knew he’d done a good job. But still he paced and watched the clock and wished like hell it was nine.
No, he wished it was eleven and the damn thing was over.
It was worse because Johanna was engrossed in the script Max Heddison had sent him. So Sam was left to worry, nurse the brandy he had no desire for and pace her living room. Even the redheaded kitten, which Johanna had christened Lucy, was too busy to bother with him. She was involved with wrestling a ball of yarn under Johanna’s feet.
Sam made himself sit, poked at the Sunday paper, then was up again.
“You could take a walk outside for a change of scenery,” Johanna suggested from across the room.
“She speaks! Johanna, why don’t we go for a ride?”
“I have to finish this. Sam, Michael’s a wonderful part for you, a really wonderful part.”
He’d already decided that, but it was Luke, the character who would be exposed to millions of eyes in a matter of thirty minutes, who worried him. If he took on Mich
ael, that would be another worry at another time. “Yeah. Johanna, it’s lousy for your eyes to hold papers that close.”
She moved them back automatically. In less than a minute she had her nose against them again. “This is wonderful, really wonderful. You’re going to take it, aren’t you?”
“For a chance to work with Max Heddison, I’d take it if it was garbage.”
“Then you’re lucky it shines. God, this scene here, the one on Christmas Eve, just leaves you limp.”
He stopped pacing long enough to glance at her again. She was rereading it as avidly as she’d read it the first time. And the papers were an inch from her face.
“You keep that up, you’re going to need glasses.” He saw the frown come and go and was distracted enough to smile. “Unless you already do.”
Without bothering to glance up, she turned a page. “Shut up, Sam, you’re breaking my concentration.”
Instead, he pulled the script away and held it at a reasonable distance. “Read me some dialogue.”
“You already know what it says.” She made a grab for the script, but he inched it away.
“You can’t, can you? Where are your glasses, Johanna?”
“I don’t need glasses.”
“Then read me some dialogue.”
She squinted, but the words ran together. “My eyes are just tired.”
“Like hell.” He set the script down to take her hands. “Don’t tell me my sensible Johanna’s too vain to wear reading glasses.”
“I’m not vain, and I don’t need glasses.”
“You’d look cute in them.” When she pulled her hands away, he made two circles out of his index fingers and thumbs and held them over her eyes. “Studiously sexy. Dark frames—yes, that would be best. Very conservative. I’d love to take you to bed while you were wearing them.”
“I never wear them.”
“Ah, but you do have them. Where?”
She made a grab for the script, but he blocked her. “You’re just trying to distract yourself.”
“You’re right. Johanna, I’m dying in here.”
She softened enough to touch his face. It was something she still did rarely. Automatically he lifted his hand to her wrist and held it there. “The reviews couldn’t have been better, Sam. America waits for nine o’clock with bated breath.”
“And America might be snoring by nine-fifteen.”
“Not a chance.” Reaching over, she picked up the remote to turn on the set. “Sit down. We’ll watch something else until it starts.”
He eased into the chair with her, shifting her until she stretched across his lap. “I’d rather nibble on your ear until it starts.”
“Then we’ll miss the first scene.” Content, she rested her head against his shoulder.
It had been an odd weekend, she thought. He’d stayed with her. After her first unease, they’d fallen into a simple routine that was no routine at all. Lovemaking, sleep, walks, the little chores a house required, even a trip to the market to fuss over fresh vegetables.
She hadn’t felt like a producer for forty-eight hours, nor had she thought of Sam as an actor. Or a celebrity. He’d been her lover—or, as he had once put it, her companion. How lovely life would be if it could be that simple. It had been difficult, even for these short two days, to pretend it could be. It had been much less difficult to wish.
She’d changed his life. He didn’t know how to explain it, or how to put it into words she might understand, but change it she had. He’d known that for certain when he’d gotten the script.
Max Heddison had been as good as his word. Sam had felt like a first-year drama student being offered the lead in a summer-stock production. It had come through Marv, of course, along with Marv’s opinion about potential, the old school and the new, a million five plus percentages. Sam had taken it all in. It was never wise to forget that show business remained a business. Then he had devoured the script.
There was a part of him, a part he hoped would always be there, that could break out in a sweat at the chance to take on a new role. The character of Michael was complex, confused, desperately trying to unravel the mystery of his much-loved, much-detested father. He could already see Max Heddison in that role. Slowly, trying to see the script as a whole, as well as a vehicle, he’d read it again.
And he’d known he wanted to do it. Had to do it.
If Marv could get a million five, fine and dandy. If he could get peanuts and a keg of beer, that was all right, too. But rather than picking up the phone and calling his agent with a go-ahead, he’d bundled up the script and taken it to Johanna.
He’d needed her to read it. He’d needed her opinion, though throughout his career he’d always gone on his own gut instinct. Agent or not, the final decision had always been his. Now that had changed.
In a matter of weeks she’d become entwined with his life, his thoughts, his motives. Though he’d never thought of himself as a solitary person, he’d stopped being alone. She was there now, to share with—the big things, like the script, and the small things, like a new litter of kittens. It might have been true that she still held back from him, but in the last two days he’d seen her relax. Degree by degree, certainly, but he’d been able to see the change. That morning she’d seemed almost used to waking beside him.
He was giving her time, Sam thought as he brushed his lips over her hair. But he was also making his moves.
“Here come the teasers,” Johanna murmured, and he was jerked back to the present. His stomach clenched. He swore at himself, but it tightened anyway, as it did whenever he prepared to watch himself on-screen. He flashed on, wearing only faded jeans, a battered panama and a grin, while the voice-over promised the sultry and the shocking.
“It is a nice chest.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek.
“They spent half the time spraying it so it’d have that nice jungle-fatigue shine. Do women really pant over a sweaty chest?”
“You bet,” she told him, and settled down to watch the opening credits.
She was drawn in before the first five minutes were over. Luke drifted into town with two dollars in his pocket, a reputation on his back and an eye for the ladies. She knew it was Sam, pulling bits and pieces of his art together to meld with the writer’s, but it rang true. You could almost smell the sweat and boredom of the sleepy little town in Georgia.
During the first commercial he slid down to the floor to give her the chair. He didn’t want to ask her now, didn’t want to break the rhythm. But he rested a hand on her calf.
For two hours they said nothing. She rose once and came back with cold drinks, but they didn’t exchange words. On screen she watched the man she’d slept with, the man she’d loved, seduce another woman. She watched him talk himself out of one fight and raise his fists for another. He got drunk. He bled. He lied.
But she’d stopped thinking of him as Sam. The man she watched was Luke. She felt the slight pressure of Sam’s fingers against her leg and kept her eyes on Luke.
He was irresistible. He was unforgivable.
When the segment ended, it left her hanging and Sarah’s roses dying in the bowl.
Sam still said nothing. His instincts told him it was good. It was better than good. It was the best he’d ever done. Everything had fallen into place—the performances, the atmosphere, those lazy two-edged words that had first caught his imagination and his ambition. But he wanted to hear it from her.
Rising, he shifted to sit on the arm of her chair. Johanna, his Johanna, was still frowning at the screen. “How could he do that to her?” she demanded. “How could he use her that way?”
Sam waited a moment, still careful. “He’s a user. It’s all he knows.”
“But she trusts him. She knows he’s lied and cheated, but she still trusts him. And he’s—”
“What?”
“He’s a bastard, but— Damn, there’s something compelling about him, something likable. You want to believe he could change, that she could ch
ange him.” Unsettled, moved, she looked up at him. “What are you grinning at?”
“It worked.” He hauled her up and kissed her. “It worked, Johanna.”
She backed up enough to breathe. “I didn’t tell you how good I