by Maisey Yates
Julian pulled away from her. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You sighed.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Do you sigh at the mention of my name?” he asked.
“I’ve cried out your name at three in the morning,” Nina said. “What more do you want?”
“More!”
She tossed her copy of the script to the floor. Its pages were bloodied with red ink. “Sorry. I don’t have much more to give.”
“Not sure I believe that, Goldie. I’ll have to double my efforts tonight.”
He reached for his phone to check the time. It was 10:35 p.m. and he had two missed calls—from a studio executive in California.
* * *
Eleven p.m. Julian was still on the phone, arguing with the executive. The production company was backing out from its agreement to fund Midnight Sun.
“You hired an unknown to revise the script and Francisco Cortes to direct. There’s a stable of hotshot directors to choose from, and you went with Cortes.”
“Frank has a vision—”
“I’m sure he does. He’s not the right person to direct this film.”
Julian was pacing a hole into Nina’s wood floors. “I won’t drop him.”
“We’re not asking you to. We’re pulling funding from the film, and we wish you luck.”
“You’re making a mistake.”
“Sorry, Knight. It’s done.”
Straightaway, Julian got Frank on the phone. Frank answered on the hundredth ring, his voice raspy. “At this hour it better be important.”
“Spring Pictures dropped us.”
“For what reason?”
Julian hesitated. “It doesn’t matter.”
“How much were they in for?”
“Half the budget.”
Frank fell quiet, and Julian did, too. They were screwed, and they both knew it. Funding from an established production house would lend the film clout. What the hell were they going to do now?
Frank had the answer. “I’ll put up the money.”
“Don’t do this.”
“I’ve always wanted to produce. If we stick to our budget, we can manage. And I can bring in some very rich people who’ve been dying to get into the movie business.”
Julian went weak with relief and leaned against Nina’s breakfast bar. She was folding clothes into her suitcase, pretending not to eavesdrop. He hoped she hadn’t overheard the producer taking him to task for hiring her. It was the one decision he would not overturn. He needed her. They worked well together. More than that, she made work fun and challenging. He did not need Hollywood’s seal of approval on this.
“I have one condition.”
Julian ran a hand through his hair. “You and your bloody conditions, Frank.”
“I come aboard as a coproducer and you take the reins.”
“I don’t follow.”
“This is your movie to direct. You know it.”
“Like hell I do.”
“Trust me, Julian,” Frank said. “I know this business. It runs on stories. This is your comeback story, not mine. Julian Knight writes and directs his first feature film. How does that sound?”
It sounded so good, Julian’s chest ached, but assuming the role of director scared him to death. The best directors he’d worked with were creative geniuses. That wasn’t him.
“I know you can do it,” Frank said. “And I know you want to do it. Take a chance. What do you have to lose?”
“Your money.”
“There’s more to life than money.”
This paternal side to Francisco Cortes was endearing. “Do you have kids, Frank?”
“More than a few.” He laughed. “Can you tell?”
Julian made up his mind. He’d do it under one condition. “I’m not acting in a film I’m directing. We’d have to find someone to play the part of Luke.”
He had to draw the line somewhere. As the writer, director and producer, all the trappings of a vanity project were present and accounted for. Besides, he wouldn’t have the time. He had two monumental tasks ahead: one, to deliver a film on time and on budget, and two, to coax subtle and nuanced performances from the cast. The second goal was arguably the most important. His acting skills were limited, and this film was so different from anything he’d ever been involved in. He’d never had an acting job that didn’t involve a gun as a prop.
“Agreed,” Frank said. “But that’s a question for another day. I’m going back to sleep.”
“Did I wake you, Dad?”
“I’ll tell you what I tell my kids, Julian. Unless you’re calling from jail, don’t call me after 10:00 p.m.”
“Gotcha.”
Julian slid his phone across the countertop and pressed his forehead against the cool granite. “Nina,” he groaned. “I need your loving.”
“I’ve got something better.” She walked into the kitchen, pulled a bottle out of the freezer and grabbed a couple glasses from the cupboard. “What was all that about?”
“The studio dropped us. Frank is producing. I’m directing and dropping the role of Luke.” He looked down at the glass she put before him. “I’m going to need more vodka than this.”
She splashed more Grey Goose in his glass. “I don’t know. Sounds perfect to me. Everything is shaking into place.”
This woman… In an oversize concert T-shirt and fuzzy slippers, hair in a topknot, she was at ease in her home. That overall glow was the result of his handiwork, and he was proud of it. The T-shirt, though, was a relic from the past. He’d asked if she was a fan of Bruce Springsteen. Although she was a fan, she confessed that the T-shirt belonged to an ex.
“Since everyone seems to be expanding their roles, maybe I should, too.”
“Would you like to try acting? We could find you a role.”
“No, Julian,” she said. “I’m not a performer. I’m a storyteller.”
She spoke with the confidence of a lifetime of soul searching, pen to paper, first filling countless pretty diaries with locks, then spiral-bound notebooks and now leather-bound journals. Julian admired this about her above all.
“You hired me to patch up the dialogue, but I could do more with the material if you trust me.”
“Do what you want with it. I trust you more than myself.” He had rushed to reassure her, only now he was curious as to what she had in mind. “What are your thoughts?”
“The Amanda story arc needs an overhaul.”
“Overhaul?” He’d expected a tweak here and there, not an overhaul. “Are you sure?”
“She’s either rebelling against her father, competing with her brother or reacting to Luke. She needs an arc independent of the men in her life.”
“How about you write a monologue to address this?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “You’d have her stand on a mountain and preach the gospel of feminism?”
“I see your point.” Amanda was the lead, and he wanted her role to be as strong as possible. He wouldn’t want to be accused of failing another female character. On the other hand, there was a risk that pulling on one thread could unravel the whole story. “You think it’s possible to undertake a massive overhaul with our time constraints?”
“I’ll work within the frame of the story,” she said. “Nothing else has to change. I know your vision, and I respect it.”
“It’s still a lot of work. I’d have to bring you on as a partner and give you on-screen credit. That’s how it works with original screenplays.”
She fidgeted with a matching salt and pepper shaker set. Julian wished she didn’t look so nervous. He’d agree to anything if it meant they could work together. Their long discussions into the night, debating ideas, meant something to him. That was a revelation to him. He’d
been so protective of this project in the past.
“Screenplay by Julian L. Knight and Nina Taylor,” he said. “Don’t you like the sound of that?”
“Please don’t think I’m trying to hijack your project.”
“I don’t,” he said. “You, on the other hand, may want to overthink this. Do you really want your name linked to mine?”
A crease forged between her brows. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Julian’s gaze fell to the counter, catching the flecks of gold in the earth-toned granite. “I don’t expect the critics will be lining up to applaud my efforts. They’re going to trash it.”
She inched closer to him. Their heads were nearly touching. “Not if it’s good. They may never gush over it, but they can’t trash it if it’s good.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Is it…good?”
She twisted her lips to one side. “As it is? Pretty good.”
That wasn’t good enough. “If we partner up, I’d have to pay you more.”
“I’m not in it for money.”
Julian sipped his vodka. “You’re more principled than I am.”
He wasn’t expecting to make any money from his first film. Breaking even and a few positive reviews were the best he could hope for. He considered it an investment, a way to reset his image and establish himself as a serious filmmaker.
She took his glass from him, raised it to her lips and sipped, her expression vacant. “I went to Miami to fulfill one of my mother’s dreams. Doing this sort of work fulfills one of my own.”
It made sense. She loved cinema. She loved writing. Here was a chance to combine those two loves.
She took another sip and set the glass down. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m in it for money, too. I want to partner with you, and I want to get paid. This is a business.”
Now they were on the same page. “I think we’re going to work well together.”
Her lips curled in the sort of smile she saved just for him. “How would you feel if I stuck around during production? I’d love to see the director at work.”
“Is it okay if the director rests his head on your lap when he’s losing his grip?”
She circled the breakfast bar and hugged him from behind, resting her cheek on the space between his shoulder blades. “Don’t worry. You can do this.”
“We can do this.” Did he have to remind her that she was in this up to her teeth?
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, and returned to her packing.
Julian followed her into the bathroom. It was a decent size by New York standards. It did not compare to the marble and brass sanctuary they’d left behind. There was only one sink, and the walk-in shower wouldn’t fit two. It had rained earlier, and the streetlights bled into the small water-stained window.
“Are you almost done packing?” he asked.
“Nowhere close.” She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out an assortment of vials and jars. “You keep me busy, Mr. Knight.”
“Would you like to stay one more night? There’s no rush.”
“You…wouldn’t mind?”
“Not at all.” Spending time away from the hotel was good for them. It took them out of the fantasy and put them squarely in real life. “Plus, I should keep an eye on Ted.”
“Someone has to,” she said. Earlier, she’d showed him a social media post that had them both in stitches. Is that #JLK hauling a pink couch into my BFF’s building…or am I still drunk?
“So, it’s settled.”
She opened a drawer and pulled out a strip of Trojans. “Should I pack these, too?”
“Sure.” Julian reached out and tugged at her T-shirt. “Consider leaving this behind, and any other of your former lovers’ clothing.”
“But the cotton is so soft!” she protested.
He gathered the hem of the tee and gently tugged it over her head. Her past lovers could choke on their misery. Those breasts, those hips, that body and all that soft skin were his.
She touched the tip of a finger to his chin. “I love the way you look at me.”
“I’m not thinking loving thoughts,” he warned.
“Good.” She ripped off a condom packet from the strip. He tried to take it from her, but she was too quick. “Oh, please. Allow me.”
Earlier, they’d played and teased each other. This time, Julian cut out the superfluous. His desire filled him with urgent need. He slid her thin panties down to her ankles then turned her around. She tilted forward, pressing her palms to the wall.
They really did work well together.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The simplest and most pleasurable way to rouse Nina from sleep was to press kisses to the back of her knees. It was daybreak in Miami, and the lavish hotel room was cloaked in shadows. Julian leaned over Nina’s sleeping body and rubbed his chin, rough with stubble, into the softness of her thigh until she stirred and lifted her head off the pillow. Her eyes shone black in the darkness. Groggy still, she extended a hand, an invitation. “Come back to bed.”
He was tempted, but he had other plans for her. “Let’s go for a swim.”
She raised herself on one elbow. “Now?”
“Trust me. You’ll like this.”
She kicked back the sheets, murmuring something about being too sleepy to argue. Minutes later, she came out of the bathroom in a simple black bikini. She reached for a silk tunic draped over the back of an armchair. “Ready.”
“Are you sure that’s all you’ll need?”
“Oh, right.” She found her flip-flops and slipped them on.
“We’re going to stay awhile,” he said.
She went into the bathroom for a bottle of sunscreen. “Okay. Ready.”
Julian crossed the room to retrieve her weekender bag hanging from a peg in the closet and tossed it to her. “You’ll need a change of clothes.”
“Oh!” She brightened. “You should have said so.” She did a quick job of packing. “Almost done.”
Julian watched as she darted from the nightstand to the writing desk. Then with a sigh of frustration, she grabbed her purse and dumped the contents on the bench at the foot of the bed.
Julian checked his watch. He wanted to head out early. “What are you looking for?”
“My…um…nothing…” Although she’d stopped fretting, her brown eyes betrayed her worry. “It’s not important.”
“If it’s not important, forget it. Let’s go!”
Pete brought the car around. Julian raised the partition between the front and back seats as he had started to do whenever Nina was in the car. Two hours later, they pulled up to mile marker thirty-three on the Overseas Highway. Julian had reserved a simple boat, a twenty-foot Sportcraft with a Bimini top. He extended a hand to help her aboard. She turned to him, her face flush with delight. “Julian, where are you taking me?”
“I’ll be honest. I have no idea.”
“Do you know how to drive this?”
He laughed. “Just climb aboard.”
Julian didn’t have a final destination in mind. He was motivated by the need to escape the hotel. They’d been back in Miami for weeks now and, in a way, Sand Castle was home. Since their return, they had fallen into an easy rhythm, starting the day with conference calls with their financiers, production team or casting agent. Afterward, they parted ways. She stayed in, chained to her writing desk, wrist braces in place. He left to scout locations, approve props or hold auditions. Evenings, after dinner, they lingered at the table. Nina would give him her honest opinion on everything from costumes to set design.
Everything was shaking into place, just as she’d said. Nina had turned in a brilliant script, elevating his basic story to a richer and more nuanced one. Bettina signed on for the part of Amanda and went so far as to recommend Pierce Alexander for
the role of Luke.
“Anything you’d like to tell me about you and Pierce?” he’d asked Bettina.
“Anything you’d like to tell me about the woman you’ve been photographed with all over Miami?”
“I can tell you this—the rumors are true.”
“You won’t find any rumors about Pierce and me. We’re discreet.”
“I’m happy for you, Betty.”
Julian was just about happy for everyone—full stop. He was a barrel of joy, his work life and private life running on all cylinders. But at the moment, he and his lady needed a break.
* * *
After they’d sailed out a mile or so, Julian chose to drop anchor over a reef bathed in turquoise waters. Nina stood on deck, taking in the view. Her black hair was in her signature braid. Tendrils broke free and played in the breeze. He slipped off the hair tie at the end and loosed the three sections. Her hair broke into cascading waves down her back. He thanked God that his camera was at hand. He asked her to stand still and snapped a few photos, although he’d never forget how she looked standing there in the fresh morning light.
She leaned over the rail. “Think we can dive off?”
“I expect you to, my little mermaid.”
“I don’t know if you picked up on this, but I’m not a world-class swimmer.”
She stripped off her silk tunic, revealing taut toffee-brown skin. Julian dropped the camera and reached for her. He toyed with the ties of her bikini bottom. “May I?”
She slapped his hand away. “What if they see us?”
“Who?” He struggled to spot a single sign of human life in any direction.
