by Renee Roszel
“Okay, Fred,” she agreed with as much enthusiasm as one might if she were about to have her teeth extracted with a pair of rusty pliers.
Fred winked encouragingly and patted her arm. “You’re a trouper, kid.”
As he called for the scene, Gina walked onstage, her shoulders squared, her heart hammering. With one disheartened glance at David and his doting Florence Nightingale, she moved to meet Max at center stage, determined to push them both out of her mind.
Max and Gina went through their scene. It didn’t go very well. Gina’s depression over David’s rudeness haunted her, not to mention the fact that she had to struggle with Max as he forced a kiss on her. He certainly put everything into the part. All in all, it wasn’t her happiest experience to date.
Twenty minutes later, they’d finally made it all the way through the scene. For some reason Max kept flubbing his lines just at the part where he had to kiss her—over and over. Gina was about to cry foul when Fred finally announced, “Okay, folks, it’s nearly ten o’clock. I figure I’ll have Jud and Laurey go through this once more and then we’ll call it quits. The rest of you are free to go.”
Gina’s stomach constricted, but recalling that Fred had called her a trouper, she decided to keep her complaints to herself. Instead, she consulted her script, trying to concentrate on her lines and hoping Max was doing the same. It took her a minute to realize someone was calling her name. Turning toward the front of the stage, she saw David standing at the place where he’d fallen. His hands were curled over the ledge that held the footlights; his expression was solemn.
Apprehensively, she asked, “Yes? Did you say something to me?”
“I’m very sorry, Gina,” he began, his voice soft and contrite. “I was a bastard, before.”
Max laughed harshly, “That’s about the size of it, Baron. What you need is a swift kick in the butt.”
A brief, sad smile twisted David’s lips, but he didn’t take his eyes from Gina, remarking quietly, “I hope that’s not the only way I can be prodded into moving forward.” His gaze haunted, he asked, “Can you forgive me?”
Even blighted and watchful as his expression was, David’s face was captivating, and she felt a blow to her heart. “David, I—”
“Sure, she’ll forgive you,” Max cut in sharply. “Just as soon as you aim your tail back toward Boston and leave her alone!”
David shifted to stab Max with a cutting glare. “I could engage you in a battle of wits, Murphy,” he assured in a controlled voice. “But I don’t relish firing on the walking wounded.”
“Is that a crack?” Max protested.
David half smiled. “Yours, I might add, is obviously a head wound.”
“Why, you—”
“Max…” Gina took hold of his sleeve as he began to advance on David. “Stay out of this.” Turning toward David, she managed a strained smile. “I accept your apology. Now maybe you’d better go.”
David nodded, and Gina was touched by the gentle sadness in his eyes. “Thank you. And I—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’ve got a rehearsal here, Baron. Remember?” Max interrupted hotly.
David chose not to acknowledge the other man’s hostility. Pursing his lips, he nodded a farewell to Gina and turned away.
THE FIRST WEEK OF rehearsals was behind them and the scenery was well on the way to completion. To Gina’s relief, David had been much less critical all week. But he’d still dominated her every waking hour by his obstinate presence, both at the lighthouse and at rehearsals.
He was intentionally making things difficult for her at rehearsals. They seemed always to be required to dance together, hold hands or, worst of all, to kiss, and David used each opportunity to his single-minded advantage.
Gina had managed to maneuver things, make excuses, whatever she could invent to keep from having to kiss him during rehearsals—up to now. But, tonight, they were going to rehearse the grand finale, and she didn’t think she could call a halt just before the kiss by pleading a headache, a splinter in her finger, or to ask questions about her character’s motivation. She’d used up her delaying tactics, and she was as nervous as a mouse in a cage with a starving cat. There was an unmistakable, predatory glitter in David’s eyes. It told her that she was going to be kissed tonight, and she was going to be kissed damn thoroughly.
Their eyes had happened to meet moments before, and David had passed her such a vile grin she’s almost fallen out of her chair. She fiddled with a loose string dangling from a rip in her hacked-up jeans and secretly surveyed him as he chatted with several smitten females.
For several nights following rehearsals, David had come in quite late. Still when Paul asked Gina out, and she had begged off with a variety of excuses out of a demented curiosity to see whether David went home or not. Most evenings, he hadn’t, but her pride had not allowed her to question him. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder where he was spending so much time.
Fred, needing to instruct the stagehands about a quick scenery change, called for a ten-minute break before the finale. Gina escaped to a small room backstage that housed the pop machine. She was flipping the tab on a diet soda when David appeared beside her.
“Diet?” he queried.
She regarded him with indignant eyes, not caring to admit that she’d had a dreadful time getting her jeans fastened this morning. Instead, she informed him stiffly, “They’re out of Chocolate Fudge Splash.”
“What a shame.” His lips twitched knowingly. “Are you about ready for—our scene?”
“Shouldn’t I be?” she replied, straining to be distantly polite.
“I thought you might be feeling some reluctance,” he taunted.
“You couldn’t be more wrong,” she retorted, but there was a breathless, agitated quality in her voice that disclosed her dread.
“That’s good.” He lifted her can of soda pop from her hand and took a drink of it. When he handed the soda back, Gina took a drink herself. She had the feeling David found some pleasure in knowing that her lips were touching something his lips had recently brushed. Her cheeks grew warm at the thoughts and she shifted uncomfortably. Trying to be nonchalant, she reproached, “You’re not going to try anything funny, are you?”
He eyed her skeptically. “Funny?” Lounging back against the pop machine, he folded his arms. If it hadn’t been for the flash of aggravation in his eyes, she might have believed he was completely at ease. “I assure you, darling, I’m completely serious about—this.”
The small room suddenly seemed uncomfortably warm. Casting her gaze down, she feigned interest in the tab in her soda-pop can. “Don’t humiliate me, David,” she pleaded wearily.
After a long, tense pause, Gina heard him shift away from the pop machine. “I’ll see you onstage,” he ground out. An instant later, the rap of his boots against the wooden floor told her that he was stalking away.
Fred called for the finale to begin, and Gina took one last gulp of her soda before she tossed it in the trash and headed into the auditorium, toward what she was sure would be an unhappy fate. David would definitely punish her now. Jamming her hands into her jeans pockets, she trudged toward the stage like a convict going to the gallows. She doubted very seriously that her punishment would be boring—not for her, and not for anyone who had the dubious privilege of witnessing it.
THE FINALE WAS progressing at warp speed as far as Gina was concerned. Curly had been acquitted of killing Jud, who’d fallen on his own knife. Flirtatious Ado Annie had been tamed by her stocky swain, Will. And the cast was belting out the final reprise of “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.” Curly—gorgeous and virile—leaned against a cardboard tree, one booted heel hiked against it, a trim hip cocked to one side in a sexy slouch. He was smiling at her, his eyes gleaming with desire. And rightly so. Curly and Laurey were about to leave for their honeymoon.
As established by the director, during the final verse of the song, Curly was supposed to amble over to where Laurey was perched on the porch
railing, lift her slowly down, and as she descended, she was to kiss his upturned face. Then, he was to do one full turn with Laurey held high in his arms before lowering her to her feet. All the while they were to continue to kiss—even as the music faded and the curtain fell.
Gina was not thrilled about this bit of direction, but she didn’t seem to have much choice. The final verse was upon them and Curly was ambling toward her. His eyes twinkled with contrary mirth. But what could he do here in front of thirty-odd cast members and stagehands?
She held fast to her character’s “shy bride” smile as he put his hands about her waist and lifted her from the porch rail. The song swelled and the Maryvale players put every ounce of their singing talent into the final, romantic stanzas. Gina hesitantly placed her arms about his neck and, as the script dictated, lowered her lips to his. She, however, didn’t give a hoot about the script’s dictates on the actual kiss, and kept her mouth defiantly closed.
David didn’t seem particularly daunted by this, and as he made his unhurried turn, he nipped tenderly at her lower lip. Between soft bites, he teased her mouth with his dastardly tongue. Irritated by his appalling lack of discretion, Gina hissed, “Don’t—”
The fleeting lapse in her defense was enough. Her lips parted, and David chuckled, his charged kiss taking immediate command. His tongue breached her mouth and began to play an unfair game. As her mind whirled with shock and surprise at this sudden, sensory onslaught, she was vaguely aware that she was being lowered slowly toward the floor, and almost as quickly, she realized that something was very wrong—something besides the fact that David had gotten his way, after all. Her left leg wasn’t coming down with her.
She mumbled a groan of discomfort against David’s devouring mouth. Apparently he was also aware of something amiss, for he lifted his face from hers. “What the hell…” he muttered, his gaze darting down.
They both stared. Gina was still being held fast by David, but one of the large slashes in her jeans, high on her left thigh, had managed to gobble up his silver belt buckle like a button in a buttonhole.
Gina was holding on to his neck in an effort to keep her pants from being irreparably torn. “Carry me to the steps. We can unhook over there.”
Members of the chorus began to quit singing a few at a time, until the whole finale faded in a confusion of voices. Some of the more observant singers began to point and chuckle.
When David had settled Gina on a step, allowing her to stand on one leg, he began to struggle with the ensnared belt buckle. Unfortunately the jeans were fairly shredded in that area, and getting all the thin strands out of the way took dexterity and two hands, which neither of them had to spare.
“Don’t tear my pants, David,” Gina cautioned.
“Why? Would the fashion police arrest you for an unauthorized rip?” he chided. “Hold still.”
“You’re very droll. Next year you ought to try out for the Physics Follies. Call yourself The Hilarious Mr. Inert Gases—or something simple, like Redshift Skelton.”
“I see you’ve picked up some physics jargon over the years,” David observed easily. “Lord, your jeans are tight. How do you breathe?”
“Mind your own business.”
“This is what a diet of chocolate and fried chicken does.”
“Don’t lecture me,” Gina hissed. “I’ll eat what I please.”
“Do you know what your basic problem is, Gina?”
“No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You need to get laid,” he accused softly.
“You need a cold shower,” she observed tartly, but felt a blush warm her face.
He merely chuckled, provoking her further. But she decided to concentrate on separating herself from him rather than having a heated argument at such close quarters. In order to get into the right position to dislodge his buckle and keep from ripping the denim any further, David had to press them, groin to groin. “Can you hold the fabric open with one hand?”
“Yes! Just hurry!” She did the best she could, since she had to hold on to his neck to keep from toppling backward and tearing her jeans all the way to her waist. “I’ve got it opened,” she said. “Now thrust up while I arch back.”
He lifted his amused gaze to meet her frown and teased, “Oh, baby, I love it when you tell me what you want.”
She must have been on the brink of hysteria. That was the only reason she could think of that would have prompted her to burst out laughing. But there was something about this whole ridiculous situation, coupled with David’s incorrigible banter, that sent her into a giggling fit. “You’re making me crazy. Just do it, for Pete’s sake!” she pleaded.
With one more thrust that Gina could have sworn was more blatantly sexual than necessary, she found herself disengaged from her unruly husband. She would have staggered backward and fallen if he hadn’t still had an arm about her waist. Reflexively she grabbed his neck, and they were suddenly, once again, clasped cheek to cheek.
The cast was laughing, enjoying the spectacle. Unable to help herself, Gina grinned, thoroughly embarrassed. “That was humiliating,” she admitted near his ear.
“One of the pitfalls of being on fashion’s cutting edge, I would imagine.”
She leaned back, eyeing him narrowly, then shook her head. She was about to make a remark about his contrary wit when Fred said, “Okay, people, we’d better try that again. I want to see this thing through to the finish at least once tonight.”
Gina sobered instantly. Try it again! She shot an alarmed look at David, who had the audacity to wink at her.
“Don’t you dare try that tongue thing again,” she warned.
“Sweetheart, you know me better than that,” he countered, his grin perfectly indecent. Before she could protest further, he lifted her in his arms and deposited her on the porch railing.
She grabbed at the wooden prop to keep from falling backward. By the time she’d balanced herself and looked up to glare at David, he had swung around and was meandering away with a grace that bordered on insolence, his broad shoulders straining at the denim jacket he was wearing. The self-satisfied, obstinate, pacifist—bully! she mused belligerently.
Clamping her jaw shut, she vowed that this time she would be more prudent. This time she would make no fatal protests. David could nip and lick at the sealed bulwark of her lips until hell became a seaside resort, but she would not open her mouth!
11
David towered above the others, tall and athletic looking in his snug jeans and chambray shirt as he ambled out of the library after the rehearsal was over. His hat brim was pulled low over a self-satisfied countenance as he strode toward Gina. With a finger to the brim of his hat, he said, “Well—good night, Gina.”
Startled by his unexpected departure, she veered around to stare after him, but he was already disappearing into the unlit parking lot. “Where—” she began, but broke off her question. She mustn’t allow David to think she cared about his unexplained absences after rehearsals.
He was just manipulating her again—giving her something to worry about. He thought she’d wonder where he was spending his time. He might even think she would torment herself about where he was and who he might be with. Silly him. “You can go anywhere you want, indulge in anything you want with anyone you choose, Dr. Baron! See if I care!” she muttered irritably, heading toward her car.
“Say, Gina,” a voice called from behind her. Recognizing Fred’s husky shout, she turned around to look for him in the crowd. “Some of us are going to the drugstore for a cup of coffee. Want to come?”
She didn’t particularly relish being alone with her thoughts, so she called, “I’d love to go, Fred. Thanks.”
She had no idea who was going to the drugstore, and she didn’t care. She just wanted to be surrounded by happy, trivial chatter for a change. A half-dozen cast members headed toward the drugstore. It was closed, but since the owner’s wife, Erma, was playing the part of Auntie Eller, she opened up the s
oda fountain. Those cast members who’d come to the drugstore decided to make a party of it and pitched in to create bizarre sundaes and banana splits.
“Gluttons of the world, unite!” cried Erma’s husband, Hawley. He raised a spoonful of strawberry ice cream coated with butterscotch syrup and downed it.
“Yeah, let’s go for the gusto!” Fred declared, laughing. “Speaking of gusto, I need more whipped cream, Erma. And sugar sprinkles. How about you, Laurey?”
Gina sat back, feeling like an overblown balloon. Her jeans felt like they were about to split at the seams. With a tired shake of her head, she sighed, “Can’t eat another sprinkle. You could rent me out right now as the Goodyear blimp.” Pushing herself up from her place at the end of the booth, she said, “I’d better go. The walk back to the parking lot will do me good.”
“You want company?” Fred asked. “Although I doubt if anything bad would happen to you here in Maryvale.”
She patted his shoulder. “Finish your sprinkles. I’ll be fine.”
Waving good-night to the lingerers, she left the drugstore and headed back toward the library parking lot, five blocks away. Her jeans felt so tight, she decided to undo the top snap. The relief was instantaneous. Inhaling the crisp night air, she pulled her jacket closer about her shoulders. Stars were everywhere, like sugar sprinkles on chocolate syrup.
The analogy made her smile fade. Funny, she’d never thought of the night sky as chocolate, before. And she’d never had to unbutton her jeans in order to breathe before, either. She wondered idly just what her cholesterol level was, right now? Forty trillion? Oh, who cared, anyway! she chided herself. Too many years married to a health nut, she decided. “Darn you, David!” she muttered.
“Ah, ever in your thoughts, I see.”
Gina jerked around to see a broad-shouldered cowboy striding out of the shadows.
“David!” she gasped, startled. “Where did you come from?”
He shrugged his hands into his jeans pockets. “I was taking a walk. Nice night.” Peering at her oddly, he asked, “What are you doing out here in the dark?”