Long, Lean, and Lethal

by Heather Graham

  Instantly protective of her own family’s interests and their unique, award-winning chardonnay, Jennifer’s character—newly estranged from her husband, with the family lawyer already drawing up divorce papers—plotted to waylay the newly returned heir to the DeVille Vineyards, and find out if he was after her sister or the family wine.

  In truth, she’d had an affair with David DeVille the previous summer in France, never letting on to any of the Valentines. The families had long been at odds.

  The next scene was a flashback to the affair, putting her with David DeVille in a garret in France. She had not known his real identity, despite being in his bed. David had been careful to keep that information from her.

  “Great,” Jennifer murmured, setting the script on the table and looking from Doug to Jim. “Is there any day in the next two weeks where I get to wear a complete set of clothing?”

  Jim hesitated, picking up his cup. “Friday,” he said, then he frowned. “No, never mind. A day with all your clothing on …” He smiled and said cheerfully, “Nope, sorry, not this week.”

  She groaned softly.

  “Oh, but your character is so loved,” Molly advised her. “She’s so deliciously sleazy, so cruel, and yet with that little streak of vulnerability.”

  “We seem to love things evil,” Conar agreed.

  “What’s happening Friday?” Jennifer demanded of Jim and Doug.

  They looked at each other, shook their heads.

  “But you will be happy,” Doug promised her.

  They left shortly thereafter, and Jennifer went to check on her mother. In the hall to her mother’s room, she saw Edgar just leaving. He shook his head unhappily. “She had such a wonderful day. And now …”

  “I’ll go in with her.”

  “She’s had her pills. She should drift to sleep soon.”

  Jennifer nodded, entered her mother’s room, and closed the door behind her. Abby was on the bed, staring into space. Her medication was working; she was trembling at a constant speed, but not jerking, nor did she seem uncomfortable.

  “Jennifer, Jen!” she said softly, reaching out a hand for her daughter.

  “Mom.” She took her mother’s hand and curled up beside her on the bed. She smoothed back a lock of her mother’s hair, kissed her forehead. “Mom, I’m so sorry you’re having such a bad time.”

  “No, I’m not, darling. I’ve been chatting with Mr. Peacock there.”

  Mr. Peacock was a figure in the walls. Abby often chatted with him while under her medication.

  “He’s so pleased that you’re not alone here anymore,” Abby said.

  “Mom, I’ve never been alone here. It’s your house, you live here.”

  “Mr. Peacock says that it’s easy to be surrounded by people, but still be alone. We all put up walls, but walls have gates and doors. You have to open a few gates, dear.” Abby’s hand tightened on Jennifer’s. “He’s still very worried about you. Mr. Peacock can hear the house, and the house is distressed. … The house loves you, but it can’t help the danger, it … well, you’re not alone anymore. He’s here.”

  “He—Conar?”

  “He’ll watch over you, dear,” Abby said, and her eyes closed.

  “I don’t need to be watched over, Mom. That isn’t fair to him, to me …”

  Her voice trailed off, for her mother had gone still. The shaking had stopped. Worried, Jennifer rested her ear against her mother’s heart. There was a steady beat. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  For a while she lay there with Abby. She dozed off, then awoke with a start.

  Coming down the dark and silent hallway, she nearly screamed when she ran into Edgar. “Miss Jennifer, it’s very late. I didn’t want to disturb you, not when you were with Miss Abby.”

  “I fell asleep on Mom’s bed, Edgar.”

  “So I figured. Well, you have an early call tomorrow.”

  “That’s right. I’m going on up.”

  “Good night, miss.”

  She walked upstairs. The whole house was darkened, but beyond the night-lights, there was a glow from down the hallway, coming from the Granger Room.

  Conar was still up, and not alone.

  He was entertaining Molly in his bedroom. Great. She heard whispers and soft laughter. Intimate voices in the night. She was surprised by the wave of emotion that washed over her as she stood there in the hallway. It was longing, she realized. Longing to laugh, to have a good time.

  If only! she found herself thinking.

  She was standing at her door, shaking. She was looking forward to filming, to doing an intimate scene with Conar. She’d done dozens of scenes. Talia Valentine got around. But she hadn’t felt this way before. Anxious. Wanting to touch … to feel. She was certain he was hot. Like flames. His hands were powerful. He knew how to kiss, to devour a whole mouth. She wondered what his lips would feel like on her breasts …

  “Sweet Jesus,” she breathed aloud, pushing open her door. What the hell was the matter with her? She closed the door behind her, leaned against it. “Get over this,” she commanded herself.

  I have no real life, and so I’m having pathetic fantasies about sex with the enemy. It seems so strange that I’ve always disliked him so much, and that now he walks into a room and I feel as if I’m as liquid as warm rain, as if, should he do more than touch me, I’d …

  No! She wouldn’t even think such thoughts.

  This was not just a normal, healthy appreciation for a good-looking male suddenly cast into the fold. No, this was different.

  And humiliating, under the circumstances. I never said anything about sleeping with you, he had told her. Still, he had kissed her in the pool. That had triggered it.

  And he had suggested she could crawl in with him last night.

  Because he’d known that she wouldn’t.

  Yet, standing against her door, she could still hear the laughter coming from his room. Adorable, charming little Molly. Molly, who was stunning—yes, definitely—the little platinum blonde with her huge chest and tiny waist.

  She was, no denying it, jealous. How could she be jealous? She had disliked Conar for years, years …

  Or was it just that she didn’t really have anything of her own? Or maybe her mother was right, and she was just desperate for sex … because she really had nothing of her own, just a life on film, in the American living rooms, in Soap Digest—and that was all? She hadn’t even had a touch to give her so much as a little thrill until …

  Until he had come along.

  She heard again the sound of laughter. Hers—soft, light on the air. His—deep, husky.

  Maybe she’d go sleep on the sofa in the den. Maybe she should take a shower. Drown out the sounds.

  That was it. Determinedly walking to her bathroom, she shed her clothing as she went, tossing her shoes, shirt, jeans, and undergarments in the air, leaving them where they fell. She turned the shower on hot, then cold, scrubbing strenuously—and having evil thoughts all the while. He really was getting to her. Nothing like a wild—noisy!—fling in her mother’s house.

  Her flesh began to wrinkle, she’d been in for so long. She twisted off the water with such vigor that the old pipes groaned.

  But when she stepped from the shower, even in her room, she could still hear the sounds of muffled laughter. She marched out to her closet and found one of her better robes, a long red velvet one that belted around the waist. Knotting it firmly, she tossed her hair back, gritting her teeth. Would they ever stop?

  She could ask them to at least quiet it down.

  That, or …

  Escape the sounds.

  Not certain if she meant to interrupt the love fest or run from it, she started out of her room. She managed to march out into the hallway just in time to see Conar’s door opening. Molly, in a knit nightshirt that molded to her perfect compact form, was slipping out.

  “Jennifer, hi, did we wake you?” she asked, concerned.

  “No, of course not,” Conar commented, smilin
g.

  She ignored him. “You didn’t wake me. I’ve been down with my mother.”

  “She’s wonderful. So beautiful, and gracious,” Molly said.

  “Thank you,” Jennifer said.

  “Good night. And thank you, too, so much.”

  “For?”

  “For having me here.”

  “You’re quite welcome, but it is my mother’s house. And as for having you … well, you’re Conar’s guest as well.”

  He heard the snideness in her tone, she was certain, even if Molly didn’t. She could have kicked herself. She hesitated. Having you. It was amazing that Molly hadn’t heard the insinuation. What the hell was the matter with her? She didn’t used to be like this.

  “You’re leaving?” she asked, trying to sound more polite.

  “Tomorrow morning. I’m meeting friends in San Francisco.”

  “Well … ,” she murmured, looking at Conar. “Thanks so much for bringing Ripper.”

  “Sure thing. Well … good night, thanks again.”

  “You’re welcome. Come back anytime.”

  Did she still sound so false? She must, the way Conar was looking at her.

  “Thanks. I’ve loved it.”

  Molly stood on tiptoe, her hands against his chest, to kiss Conar good night. She waved at Jennifer and disappeared into the guest room next to the one Doug had just vacated.

  Conar, in a velour robe, folded his arms over his chest and leaned against his open door. “Were you coming to see me?”

  “Of course not. You were … occupied.”

  He arched a brow. “I thought maybe that you were ready to join the party.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I was just …”

  “Yes?”

  “Quite frankly, I was going downstairs. Away from the …” She let her voice trail off suggestively, and with a definite hint of contempt. “Away from the noise.”

  “Oh?” he inquired. But he was grinning, she thought. Laughing at her.

  He left his bedroom doorway, walking toward her. Swaggering toward her was more like it.

  “Conar, I don’t really care to chat at the moment.” She instinctively started to back into her room; then realized she was being an idiot. Why panic? His robe was partially open, displaying a bronzed V section of his chest. Silly. She’d seen all of his chest before. His legs were bare beneath the robe.

  “I wasn’t planning on chatting,” he informed her.

  “Well, good. So go to sleep. I’m going downstairs.”

  “Why?”

  “For a drink, for milk and cookies. It’s none of your business. I’m just going downstairs because I want to go downstairs.”

  She meant to walk away with such dignity. But he was too close. Smiling with a strange light in his eyes. An almost tender look. And one that still had that mocking light of laughter. She felt the urge to kick herself again. She was really losing all sense. He’d spent the night laughing and God knew what else with Molly.

  She needed to move.

  She did walk at first—with all the dignity she had intended. Then she was walking fast, and when she reached the stairway, she was almost running.

  Soundlessly, he moved faster. At the foot of the stairway, she felt his hand on her shoulder. Felt him catch her arm. Spin her around.

  A powerful hand.

  She swore.

  And found herself swept up into his arms.

  Chapter 10

  ANGER COURSED THROUGH HER. Damn, he was built like a Mack truck, hard chiseled face, piercing gray eyes. Yes, he’d made his mark, he ruled his world. Not hers! Not hers, she couldn’t fall for him … She struggled, pressing against his chest, her fists balling. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  He grinned down at her, a strand of clean dark hair over his forehead. “What I should have done a long time ago. Taking matters into my own hands.”

  “Conar, put me down. I’ll scream. My mother will—”

  “You’re going to call Mom for help?” He was so amused, so mocking.

  “Conar, damn you, I mean it!”

  “Do you? I don’t believe you.”

  “You’re being ridiculously dramatic,” she informed him, trying for a tone of impatient annoyance.

  “Dramatic? All life is drama, and once an actor …” he murmured, and she realized that he was staring ahead at the mirror at the base of the stairs. “Ah, here we are. High drama. Echoes of Gone With the Wind. Great scene, that at the foot of the stairway. So intensely sensual. Both characters so furious, in such a tempest, and the sweeping rise up the great stairway … and then all left to the imagination. Of course, I think he was in a white shirt, black breeches, something like that. But that robe of yours … it’s bright. Some real shades of Gone With the Wind there. Red is such a telling color. Provocative. Are you trying to be provocative, Jennifer?”

  “Conar, you ridiculous bastard, you don’t even like me.”

  “You’re wrong. I do.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’ve been lusting after you for years.”

  “You are really a sorry liar.” She swung her fists suddenly against his chest.

  “A sorry liar? No, not really.”

  “You thought I was a bitch.”

  “Oh, I still think you’re capable of being a bitch. But put together right. I didn’t say I was secretly in love with you—just in lust.”

  “Put me down.”

  “I was probably always harboring fantasies about suddenly seeing you take off your clothes and throw yourself in front of me, saying something like, ‘All right, big shot, show me what you’ve got.’ “

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “Conar, you bastard—”

  He caught her hand as it landed against his cheek. “Will you quit? Clark Gable did not have to endure such abuse.”

  “Clark Gable wasn’t entertaining in his room previous to the great seduction.”

  “I’m glad you think it’s going to be a great seduction.”

  “Conar Markham, you’re out of your mind if you think I’m so desperate that I’m going to fall in your arms when you’ve just had a girl.”

  “Really? What if I didn’t just have a girl?”

  “How can you even do this?” she whispered heatedly. “That poor Molly is upstairs, having just left your room.”

  “She’d be so proud of me. Hey, be still, will you? This staircase scene with struggling cargo isn’t at all easy. I wonder how many takes they did with Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh.”

  “Conar, really!” she said breathlessly. They were in the hallway. “Look, Conar, you may find this amusing, I mean, you obviously do think I’m desperate, but I refuse—”

  They’d gotten to his room. He closed the door with a shove, leaned against it panting, hair mussed, eyes silver with amusement as they stared down at hers. “Damn, that’s a long hallway. Thank God we’re here. I won’t be much good with a hernia.”

  “Well, set me down, because I’m leaving. I won’t follow in Molly’s—”

  “But what if you weren’t following Molly?”

  “Conar, I saw her in here with you.”

  “She’s a friend. I love her very much.”

  “And that’s—”

  “She has a far different taste in sex, however.”

  “Excuse me?”

  His eyes were truly alive with amusement then. “She’s meeting a girl friend in San Francisco, Jennifer.” She still stared at him blankly. “Jen, your friend Doug is surely one of the best-looking men ever to draw breath, but he’s not your lover.”

  “Oh, really? Maybe he was at one time.”

  “No way, no how. And neither has Molly ever so much as been remotely interested in sharing a sexual experience with me.”

  He was still holding her. Smiling. Amused. And more. Her breath was barely making it in and out of her lungs. She didn’t remember ever wanting anything more in her life than to touch him.

  She
touched his cheek. “I really don’t want to be here.”

  “I know. It’s okay, I understand. I’m just a bundle of sexual appeal, and you can’t help yourself,” he said, teasing her.

  It was the pathetic truth.

  “Maybe I’m just desperate,” she said softly. Desperate seemed better than pathetic.

  He curled his fingers around hers. “I’ll live with desperate. It isn’t casual lust anymore here, it’s insane lust. I don’t give a damn about your motives at this particular minute. So go ahead. Please, tell me there’s nothing under the robe.”

  “There’s nothing under the robe.”

  His mouth ground down on hers. His tongue seemed to reach to her womb. Her arms curled around his neck, and she met the kiss, trying to taste and feel and match his every movement. She was still in his arms, aware that he was walking again. Seconds later they fell to the bed, robes slipping, and his flesh was as hot as she had imagined, an inferno, so sensual against her own, sleek, hard, rippling with muscle, with fire and force. She felt his state of arousal against her thigh as he continued to kiss her, fascinated with her lips, hungry, kissing her with wet, passionate intimacy, breaking the kiss to meet her eyes, kissing her again. Her breath caught, her heartbeat was pounding. Her eyes met his each time his kiss broke, and he stared down at her with renewed interest. His body rose against hers, erotically rubbing against her own. She was deliciously aware of that subtle feel of muscle play, the flicker of flame, brush of flesh. Pressure was ecstasy, the world was alive.

  His kisses ended, and her robe was pushed further aside. His fingers slid over her breast, the palm creating a vortex at the nipple, his fingers then tracing the peak, the aureole, the surrounding flesh, before his mouth fastened on. She could have screamed with the sudden pleasure, anticipated, but never such as this. Her fingers curled into his hair, kneaded his shoulders. Her nails scraped and stroked, her back arched, her body writhed. He moved lower. And lower. His tongue laved, touched, teased. His hand molded over her stomach and hip, slid between her thighs. Touching, stroking … the pressure of his thumb was within her … the wetness of his mouth invaded. Slowly, he increased the pressure, a faster pace, his body, his scent, oh, God, his touch, the things he was doing to her, where he was doing them …