by Nora Roberts
“At least we can agree on something.” She started to brush by him and found her arm captured. In one icy movement, she tilted her head down to look at his hand, then up to look at his face. “That’s a habit you should try to break, Michael.”
“They say when you break one habit, you pick up another.”
The ice in Pandora’s voice never changed, but her blood was warming. “Do they?”
“You’re easier to touch than I’d once thought, Pandora.”
“Don’t be too sure, Michael.” She took a step back, not in retreat, she told herself. It was a purely offensive move. Still, he moved with her.
“Some women have trouble dealing with physical attraction.”
The temper that flared in her eyes appealed to him as much as the passion he’d seen there briefly that afternoon. “Your ego’s showing again. This dominant routine might work very well with your centerfolds, but—”
“You’ve always had an odd fascination with my sex life.” Michael grinned at her, pleased to see frustration flit over her face.
“The same kind of educated fascination one has with the sex lives of lower mammals.” It infuriated her that her heart was racing. And not from anger. She was too honest to pretend it was anger. She’d come looking for an adventure, and she’d found one. “It’s getting late,” she said, using the tone of a parochial schoolteacher to a disruptive student. “You’ll have to excuse me.”
“I’ve never asked about your sex life.” When she took another step away, he boxed her neatly into a corner. Pandora’s hand slipped into her pocket and rested on the can of hair spray. “Let me guess. You prefer a man with a string of initials after his name who philosophizes about sex more than he acts on it.”
“Why you pompous, arrogant—”
Michael shut her mouth the way he’d once fantasized. With his own.
The kiss was no test this time, but torrid, hot, edging toward desperate. Whatever she might feel, she’d dissect later. Now she’d accept the experience. His mouth was warm, firm, and he used it with the same cocky male confidence that would have infuriated her at any other time. Now she met it with her own.
He was strong, insistent. For the first time Pandora felt herself body to body with a man who wouldn’t treat her delicately. He demanded, expected and gave a completely uninhibited physicality. Pandora didn’t have to think her way through the kiss. She didn’t have to think at all.
He’d expected her to rear back and take a swing at him. Her instant and full response left him reeling. Later Michael would recall that nothing as basic and simple as a kiss had made his head spin for years.
She packed a punch, but she did it with soft lips. If she knew just how quickly she’d knocked him out, would she gloat? He wouldn’t think of it now. He wouldn’t think of anything now. Without a moment’s hesitation, he buried his consciousness in her and let the senses rule.
The cabin was cold and dark without even a single stream of moonlight for romance. It smelled of dying smoke and settling dust. The wind had kicked up enough to moan grumpily at the windows. Neither of them noticed. Even when they broke apart, neither of them noticed.
He wasn’t steady. That was something else he’d think about later. At least he had the satisfaction of seeing she wasn’t steady, either. She looked as he felt, stunned, off balance and unable to set for the next blow. Needing some equilibrium, he grinned at her.
“You were saying?”
She wanted to slug him. She wanted to kiss him again until he didn’t have the strength to grin. He’d expect her to fall at his feet as other women probably did. He’d expect her to sigh and smile and surrender so he’d have one more victory. Instead she snapped, “Idiot.”
“I love it when you’re succinct.”
“Rule number six,” Pandora stated, aiming a killing look. “No physical contact.”
“No physical contact,” Michael agreed as she stomped toward the doorway. “unless both parties enjoy it.”
She slammed the door and left him grinning.
When two people are totally involved in their own projects, they can live under the same roof for days at a time and rarely see each other. Especially if the roof is enormous and the people very stubborn. Pandora and Michael brushed together at meals and otherwise left each other alone. This wasn’t out of any sense of politeness or consideration. It was simply because each of them was too busy to heckle the other.
Separately, however, each felt a smug satisfaction when the first month passed. One down, five to go.
When they were into their second month, Michael drove into New York for a day to handle a problem with a script that had to be dealt with personally. He left, cross as a bear and muttering about imbeciles. Pandora prepared to enjoy herself tremendously in his absence. She wouldn’t have to keep up her guard or share the Folley for hours. She could do anything she wanted without worrying about anyone coming to look over her shoulder or make a caustic remark. It would be wonderful.
She ended up picking at her dinner, then watching for his car through the heavy brocade drapes. Not because she missed him, she assured herself. It was just that she’d become used to having someone in the house.
Wasn’t that one of the reasons she’d never lived with anyone before? She wanted to avoid any sense of dependence. And dependence, she decided, was natural when you shared the same space—even when it was with a two-legged snake.
So she waited, and she watched. Long after Charles and Sweeney had gone to bed, she continued to wait and watch. She wasn’t concerned, and certainly not lonely. Only restless. She told herself she didn’t go to bed herself because she wasn’t tired. Wandering the first floor, she walked into Jolley’s den. Game room would have been a more appropriate name. The decor was a cross between video arcade and disco lounge with its state-of-the-art components and low, curved-back sofas.
She turned on the huge, fifty-four-inch television, then left it on the first show that appeared. She wasn’t going to watch it. She just wanted the company.
There were two pinball tables where she passed nearly an hour trying to beat the high scores Jolley had left behind. Another legacy. Then there was an arcade-size video game that simulated an attack on the planet Zarbo. Under her haphazard defense system, the planet blew up three times before she moved on. There was computerized chess, but she thought her mind too sluggish to take it on. In the end she stretched out on the six-foot sofa in front of the television. Just to rest, not to watch.
Within moments, she was hooked on the late-night syndication of a cop show. Squealing tires and blasting bullets. Head pillowed on her arms, one leg thrown over the top of the sofa, she relaxed and let herself be entertained.
When Michael came to the doorway, she didn’t notice him. He’d had a grueling day and had hit some nasty traffic on the drive back. The fact was he’d considered staying in the city overnight—the sensible thing to do. He’d found himself making a dozen weak excuses why he had to go back instead of accepting the invitation of the assistant producer—a tidily built brunette with big brown eyes.
He’d intended to crawl upstairs, fall into his bed and sleep until noon, but he’d seen the lights and heard the racket. Now, here was Pandora, self-proclaimed critic of the small screen, sprawled on a sofa watching reruns at one in the morning. She looked suspiciously as though she were enjoying herself.
Not a bad show, Michael mused, recognizing the series. In fact, he’d written a couple of scripts for it in his early days. The central character had a sly sort of wit and a fumbling manner that caused the perpetrator to spill out enough information for an arrest by the end of the show.
Michael watched Pandora as she shifted comfortably on the couch. He waited until the commercial break. “Well, how the mighty have fallen.”
She nearly did, rolling quickly to look back toward the doorway. She sat up, scowled and searched her mind for a plausible excuse. “I couldn’t sleep,” she told him, which was true enough. She wouldn’t add it was because he hadn’t
been home. “I suppose television is made for the insomniac. Valium for the mind.”
He was tired, bone tired, but he realized how glad he was she’d had a comeback. He came over, plopped down beside her and propped his feet on a coffee table made out of a fat log. “Who done it?” he asked, and sighed. It was good to be home.
“The greedy business partner.” She was too pleased to have him back to be embarrassed. “There’s really very little challenge in figuring out the answers.”
“This show wasn’t based on the premise of figuring out who did the crime, but in how the hero maneuvers them into betraying themselves.”
She pretended she wasn’t interested, but shifted so that she could still see the screen. “So, how did things go in New York?”
“They went.” Michael pried off one shoe with the toe of the other. “After several hours of hair tearing and blame casting, the script’s intact.”
He looked tired. Really tired, she realized, and unbent enough to take off his other shoe. He merely let out a quick grunt of appreciation. “I don’t understand why people would get all worked up about one silly hour a week.”
He opened one eye to stare at her. “It’s the American way.”
“What’s there to get so excited about? You have a crime, the good guys chase the bad guys and catch them before the final credits. Seems simple enough.”
“I can’t thank you enough for clearing that up. I’ll point it out at the next production meeting.”
“Really, Michael, it seems to me things should run fairly smoothly, especially since you’ve been on the air with this thing for years.”
“Know anything about ego and paranoia?”
She smiled a little. “I’ve heard of them.”
“Well, multiply that with artistic temperament, the ratings race and an escalating budget. Don’t forget to drop in a good dose of network executives. Things haven’t run smoothly for four years. If Logan goes another four, it still won’t run smoothly. That’s show biz.”
Pandora moved her shoulders. “It seems a foolish way to make a living.”
“Ain’t it just,” Michael agreed, and fell sound asleep.
She let him doze for the next twenty minutes while she watched the sly, fumbling cop tighten the ropes on the greedy business partner. Satisfied that justice had been done, Pandora rose to switch off the set and dim the lights.
She could leave him here, she considered as she watched Michael sleep. He looked comfortable enough at the moment. She thought about it as she walked over to brush his hair from his forehead. But he’d probably wake up with a stiff neck and a nasty disposition. Better get him upstairs into bed, she decided, and shook his shoulder.
“Michael.”
“Mmm?”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” he mumbled, and reached halfheartedly for her.
Amused, she shook him harder. “Never let your reach exceed your grasp. Come on, cousin, I’ll help you upstairs.”
“The director’s a posturing idiot,” he grumbled as she dragged him to his feet.
“I’m sure he is. Now, see if you can put one foot in front of the other. That’s the way. Here we go.” With an arm around his waist, she began to lead him from the room.
“He kept screwing around with my script.”
“Of all the nerve. Here come the steps.”
“Said he wanted more emotional impact in the second act. Bleaches his hair,” Michael muttered as she half pulled him up the steps. “Lot he knows about emotional impact.”
“Obviously a mental midget.” Breathlessly she steered him toward his room. He was heavier than he looked. “Here we are now, home again.” With a little strategy and a final burst of will, she shoved him onto the bed. “There now, isn’t that cozy?” Leaving him fully dressed, she spread an afghan over him.
“Aren’t you going to take my pants off?”
She patted his head. “Not a chance.”
“Spoilsport.”
“If I helped you undress this late at night, I’d probably have nightmares.”
“You know you’re crazy about me.” The bed felt like heaven. He could’ve burrowed in it for a week.
“You’re getting delirious, Michael. I’ll have Charles bring you some warm tea and honey in the morning.”
“Not if you want to live.” He roused himself to open his eyes and smile at her. “Why don’t you crawl in beside me? With a little encouragement, I could show you the time of your life.”
Pandora leaned closer, closer, until her mouth was inches from his. Their breath mixed quickly, intimately. She hovered there a moment while her hair fell forward and brushed his cheek. “In a pig’s eye,” she whispered.
Michael shrugged, yawned and rolled over. “’Kay.”
In the dark, Pandora stood for a moment with her hands on her hips. At least he could’ve acted insulted. Chin up, she walked out—making sure she slammed the door at her back.
Chapter Five
Tier by painstaking tier, Pandora had completed the emerald necklace. When it was finished, she was pleased to judge it perfect. This judgment pleased her particularly because she was her own toughest critic. Pandora didn’t feel emotionally attached or creatively satisfied by every piece she made. With the necklace, she felt both. She examined it under a magnifying glass, held it up in harsh light, went over the filigree inch by inch and found no flaws. Out of her own imagination she’d conceived it, then with her own skill created it. With a kind of regret, she boxed the necklace in a bed of cotton. It wasn’t hers any longer.
With the necklace done, she looked around her workshop without inspiration. She’d put so much into that one piece, all her concentration, her emotion, her skill. She hadn’t made a single plan for the next project. Restless, wanting to work, she picked up her pad and began to sketch.
Earrings perhaps, she mused. Something bold and chunky and ornate. She wanted a change after the fine, elegant work she’d devoted so much time to. Circles and triangles, she thought. Something geometric and blatantly modern. Nothing romantic like the necklace.
Romantic, she mused, and sketched strong, definite lines. She’d been working with a romantic piece; perhaps that’s why she’d nearly made a fool of herself with Michael. Her emotions were involved with her work, and her work had been light and feminine and romantic. It made sense, she decided, satisfied. Now, she’d work with something strong and brash and arrogant. That should solve the problem.
There shouldn’t be a problem in the first place. Teeth gritted, she flipped a page and started over. Her feelings for Michael had always been very definite. Intolerance. If you were intolerant of someone, it went against the grain to be attracted to him.
It wasn’t real attraction in any case. It was more some sort of twisted…curiosity. Yes, curiosity. The word satisfied her completely. She’d been curious, naturally enough, to touch on the sexuality of a man she’d known since childhood. Curious, again naturally, to find out what it was about Michael Donahue that attracted all those poster girls. She’d found out.
So he had a way of making a woman feel utterly a woman, utterly involved, utterly willing. It wasn’t something that had happened to her before nor something she’d looked for. As Pandora saw it, it was a kind of skill. She decided he’d certainly honed it as meticulously as any craftsman. Though she found it difficult to fault him for that, she wasn’t about to fall in with the horde. If he knew, if he even suspected, that she’d had the same reaction to him that she imagined dozens of other women had, he’d gloat for a month. If he guessed that from time to time she’d wished—just for a moment—that he’d think of her the way he thought of those dozens of other women, he’d gloat for twice as long. She wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
Individuality was part of her makeup. She didn’t want to be one of his women, even if she could. Now that her curiosity had been satisfied, they’d get through the next five months without any more…complications.
Just because she’d found him marginally acceptable as a human being, almost tolerable as a companion wouldn’t get in the way. It would, if anything, make the winter pass a bit easier.
And when she caught herself putting the finishing touches on a sketch of Michael’s face, she was appalled. The lines were true enough, though rough. She’d had no trouble capturing the arrogance around the eyes or the sensitivity around the mouth. Odd, she realized; she’d sketched him to look intelligent. She ripped the sheet from her pad, crumpled it up in a ball and tossed it into the trash. Her mind had wandered, that was all. Pandora picked up her pencil again, put it down, then dug the sketch out again. Art was art, after all, she told herself as she smoothed out Michael’s face.
He wasn’t having a great deal of success with his own work. Michael sat at his desk and typed like a maniac for five minutes. Then he stared into space for fifteen. It wasn’t like him. When he worked, he worked steadily, competently, smoothly until the scene was set.
Leaning back in his chair, he picked up a pencil and ran his fingers from end to end. Whatever the statistics said, he should never have given up smoking. That’s what had him so edgy. Restless, he pushed away from the desk and wandered over to the window. He stared down at Pandora’s workshop. It looked cheerful under a light layer of snow that was hardly more than a dusting. The windows were blank.
That’s what had him so edgy.
She wasn’t what he’d expected. She was softer, sweeter. Warmer. She was fun to talk to, whether she was arguing and snipping and keeping you on the edge of temper, or whether she was being easy and companionable. There wasn’t an overflow of small talk with Pandora. There weren’t any trite conversations. She kept your mind working, even if it was in defense of her next barb.
It wasn’t easy to admit that he actually enjoyed her company. But the weeks they’d been together at the Folley had gone quickly. No, it wasn’t easy to admit he liked being with her, but he’d turned down an interesting invitation from his assistant producer because… Because, Michael admitted on a long breath, he hadn’t wanted to spend the night with one woman when he’d known his thoughts would have been on another.