by Wendy Wax
chapter 24
Well, that was fun.” Ross drove into the roundabout at the hotel and turned off the engine. Slowly he levered his bruised body out of the car and walked gingerly around the front of it to give the keys to the attendant. “Can you keep it out, please? We’ll need it again in about thirty minutes.”
Shelley used her upper body to swing her legs around and scoot toward the door so that she could get out of the front seat without putting weight on her left knee. Which was throbbing painfully.
Together they hobbled toward the front entrance and into the marbled lobby.
“I thought I’d be safer on the opposite side of the net.”
Shelley rolled her eyes. “If you hadn’t been so busy flirting with Selena Moore, you might have gotten out of the way.”
“For your information, she was flirting with me. And you’re the one who insisted on playing kamikaze tennis.”
Unfortunately he had a point.
“Normally, when you want to win an account, you don’t slam a ball into the potential client’s rear end.”
“I had already started sending the ball over when she turned around. That was not my fault.”
It took forever to reach the elevator. She was tired and in pain and she hated that he was right. Her great stab at establishing a rapport with Selena Moore had been a disaster. She was lucky she hadn’t killed the woman.
Until Ross Morgan appeared in her life, she’d never been considered dangerous on a tennis court. She had a decent game; she’d played on numerous Atlanta Lawn and Tennis Association teams. But there was something about him that acted like a magnet for the simplest miss-hit ball. Selena Moore had simply gotten in the way. On more than one occasion.
When they arrived at the soundstage, Charlie Simms was waiting for them, his face wreathed in smiles. “I’m supposed to show you where to sit.”
They followed him past a house exterior, designed in sleek futuristic lines to look like a twenty-second-century home, then past two room interiors filled with the ultracontemporary furniture that would be featured in the commercials. The tag lines would read Furniture for Your Future.
The exterior was lit and ready. A cameraman and dolly operator were practicing a tracking shot. Actors chosen to portray the home’s space-age “family” were being “touched up” by the makeup and hair people, while a handler put their equally space-age canine through its paces.
“You’ll get to look at each shot through the camera before they shoot it, Uncle Brian,” Charlie explained as he led them to director’s chairs grouped around a television monitor. “And then you watch each take as it happens on this monitor. Is this cool or what?”
He bounded back to the set, and Tracy Evans came over to greet them.
“Hi, everyone,” the producer said. “We’ll be ready to roll film in a few minutes. In the meantime, breakfast’s right over there.” She pointed toward a cloth-covered banquet table piled high with food, then turned to Shelley. “Jake asked me to bring you to him when you got here.”
“Good, excuse me.” Shelley followed the producer to the edge of the lighted set where Luke and the director were locked in an argument.
“We agreed on a Benji type,” the creative director said. “I approved a Benji. That’s a dachshund.”
Jake shrugged. He had a beak of a nose and a mane of salt-and-pepper hair that he wore clubbed back into a ponytail. His sixty-something body was rock hard—a testament to his “Your body is your temple” philosophy and his taste in women. All four of his wives had been starlets and none of them, to Shelley’s knowledge, had pumped him full of matzo ball soup or artery-clogging chopped liver.
“Benji was up all night with a migraine. His trainer assures me he’s not fit to work today.” Jake pointed to the dachshund. “He’s a friend of Benji’s.”
Luke, who was known to dig in his own heels on occasion, shook his head. “You wanted the dachshund all along, but I approved Benji.”
Jake Helmsley was an incredibly gifted and sought-after commercial director, but he was not a schmoozer. In fact, he had a reputation for either terrorizing or ignoring his clients.
“I don’t think Brian Simms really cares what breed of dog we use,” Shelley said.
Jake and Luke looked at her as if she had committed a blasphemy, then went back to arguing, except, of course, all three of them knew that Luke didn’t stand a chance.
“Luke, let’s just live with the dachshund,” she said. “It’s not worth the time we’re wasting.”
The creative director shot her a wounded look.
“Jake?” she spoke quietly after Luke stormed off. “This shoot is excruciatingly important to me. I need you to make nice with the client. And please don’t shout at”—she located Charlie Simms scurrying around with a great loopy smile plastered on his face—“that one. He’s the client’s nephew and one of the main reasons this shoot is happening.”
“Darling,” Jake said. “When have I ever shouted at a client?”
She gave him a look. “No kidding, Jake. Good behavior. Or I’ll sic my mother on you.”
He pretended to quake. “OK, I’m all smiles today,” he said, though the expression on his face looked more like a grimace. Then he waited semi-patiently while Shelley got Brian Simms and Ross Morgan and brought them over to meet him.
“This is Jake Helmsley,” she said with pride as the men shook hands. “Here, on this set, he’s pretty much GOD,” she teased, though it was, in fact, the truth. “And we don’t question GOD directly. If you have a question or something you want to communicate, you tell me; I tell our creative director, Luke; and Luke communicates with GOD. Sort of like a priest or rabbi, depending on your persuasion. OK?”
Brian Simms nodded. Ross just checked his watch. “GOD’s expensive. Can we get started?”
She smiled apologetically to Jake and shot Ross a cease-and-desist look, which he ignored. Then she led him and Brian Simms back to their director’s chairs and out of the line of fire.
There, Ross pulled her aside. “What the hell are they waiting for? And where’s Benji? I don’t remember seeing a dachshund in the storyboards.”
The tiny French restaurant was crowded with people when Judy arrived for lunch with Brett O’Connor. She stood in the marbled entrance, jostled by the throng around her, and took it all in. This was not your suburban lunch spot peppered with housewives in tennis clothes. This was your upscale, expense-account eatery filled with suited men and women and hostesses dressed in body-molding black. Here in the leather banquettes, deals were struck and alliances formed. The hum of male voices dominated the room.
Judy shifted nervously and waited behind the line at the hostess podium, asking herself for the hundredth time why she had agreed to come.
Someone brushed up behind her and Brett’s voice sounded in her ear. “Sorry I’m late.” He put an arm around her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. Guiding her forward, he gave the hostess a blinding smile, then kept his hand at Judy’s back as they followed the woman to a dark corner booth.
Judy slid in first and Brett followed. She expected him to stop across from her, but he slid all the way around until they were shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. She could actually feel the heat coming off his body.
“Would you like some wine?” Brett asked.
Wine seemed like a very bad idea, given the heat and all. It was already late March; you’d think they’d turn the AC up in an expensive restaurant like this.
“Maybe a Shiraz?” she heard herself say.
Brett ordered the wine, and moments later a basket of crusty bread and a crock of creamy butter arrived. The wine steward presented Brett’s selection and Brett performed the ritual of tasting and approval; his casual confidence was in stark contrast to her own discomfort.
It was only lunch, she reminded herself yet again, not an act of treason. If she didn’t relax soon she was going to shatter into a million pieces.
She visualized Craig here in the boo
th beside her. He’d like the place, but he wouldn’t be staring into her eyes like Brett was now. In fact, he’d probably spend half the meal on the phone with a client and the other half quizzing the steward about the wine list, while she worked to make conversation so that no one would suspect they were one of those long-married couples with nothing left to say to each other.
The steward finished pouring and disappeared. Judy sipped her wine and eyed the bread and butter, but couldn’t bring herself to eat it in front of him.
“How’s your project coming?” He smiled one of those really sexy smiles that lifted the corners of his mouth and then went all the way up to darken his eyes. “Do I need security clearance to hear the details?”
Judy checked his face to make sure he was really interested. Craig occasionally asked, but rarely listened.
Judy turned in the banquette to face him more squarely, using the move to put a couple of inches between them. “So you want to hear about Tire World,” she said. “I wish you could have been there yesterday when Siegfried Simone, one of Atlanta’s foremost interior designers, attempted to make Wiley Haynes—he’s the good ol’ boy who owns Tire World—understand why he chose gold lamé wall coverings for the Tire World ladies’ room he’s decorating.”
Brett laughed as she replayed the conversation, imitating both men, trying to do justice to each of their mannerisms and accents. As she warmed to her story, her discomfort began to fade.
“Gold lamé in a tire store bathroom?” Brett asked.
“Well, only in the ladies’ room. We’re leaving the men’s rooms alone.”
“No faux fur or imitation crocodile for us?” He grinned in delight. “So how do I get an invitation to this opening?”
“You have to be really, really nice to me,” she teased.
“Funny, that’s exactly what I had in mind,” he replied, caressing the double entendre with his voice.
Judy felt a tiny quiver deep inside. It was emanating from a place that Craig no longer bothered to go.
“We got tahrs with art on them,” she mock-drawled in an attempt to dispel the quiver. “And food that’s shaped like tahrs. In fact, tahrs most definitely are us.”
“I had no idea tires could be so . . . haute couture,” he said, his eyes and smile growing even warmer. The man was a veritable space heater. But even more impressive than his heat and good looks was how enthralled he appeared to be by . . . her.
“Consider yourself invited.” She smiled. “I’ll make sure you get an invitation.” She could not believe she was flirting back.
His gaze locked on hers and he leaned closer.
She felt incredibly attractive and suddenly wicked. “The invitations are . . .” Her voice trailed off as he caressed her with his eyes.
“Round?” he murmured.
“Yes.” She wanted to look away, but couldn’t. His gaze was like a tractor beam dragging her toward him.
“And made of rubber,” she managed. “They’ve even got tread.”
He was throwing off heat and light. And she, she was a flower experiencing full sunshine after a long, dark winter. Why, she could practically feel her petals opening and straining toward him, reaching for . . . she didn’t know what.
Now, there was a load of fertilizer.
When the food arrived, she barely tasted it. Too soon, the bottle of wine was empty and the dishes were removed. He was looking at her as if she were dessert.
“So,” she finally said. “Tell me about Chicago . . .” she swallowed nervously “. . . and your life there.”
“Well.” He flashed a white-toothed smile; one of many he’d bestowed on her throughout the meal. “I’m divorced—mostly amicable. No kids. No pets. Currently trying to remember why I left Atlanta in the first place.” He looked into her eyes when he said it. “Some of my best memories were made here.”
Judy blushed; she could feel the prickly heat stain her cheeks and knew they were both picturing the backseat of his Mustang and the gymnastics having sex in it had required.
This would be the time to tell him about Craig and their sons. And why she shouldn’t be here.
He laughed lightly. “Do you remember the Mustang?”
Did she remember the Mustang? Did Texans remember the Alamo? Napoleon his Waterloo? Custer his last stand? It had been the scene of her sexual awakening; her one mad grasp at completely forbidden fruit.
“It was a great car, wasn’t it?” He grinned. “A little cramped, but where there’s a will . . .”
There was no way she was following that with “My husband doesn’t understand me,” or “I’ve moved out.”
This needed to remain what she had told herself it was: a casual lunch with an old friend; an unexpected opportunity to catch up on old times. Not a reliving of old intimacies or the beginning of new ones. She’d have to be an imbecile to encourage Brett O’Connor’s attentions. But that didn’t mean she had to spoil their lunch with brutal honesty.
She smiled, relieved by the rationalization, and then, feeling someone’s gaze on her, looked up to see one of Craig’s law partners staring at her from a nearby table. As their eyes met, his expression turned frosty. Embarrassed, she dropped her gaze and looked away.
“Are you all right?” Brett turned to see what she’d been looking at, but when she finally followed his gaze back toward the other table, a busboy was clearing the dishes and the back of Joe Hirsch’s head and shoulders was moving toward the exit.
Her stomach lurched as she realized how the man would probably interpret what he had just seen. He might already be on his cell phone, calling the law firm. It would take about ten seconds for the news to spread around the office that Craig Blumfeld’s wife had been spotted having lunch with another man.
chapter 25
It was the day that would not end. God, in the form of Jake Helmsley, was in a bad mood; the dachshund, possibly irritated that everyone would have preferred Benji, refused to perform; and Ross Morgan continued to be a great big pain in the tush—taking exception to the expense of everything, from the elegance of the food the caterer served to the amount of film shot for each scene to the number of times Jake rehearsed the actors. Since all of these complaints were funneled through her to Luke and then on to the deity himself, she spent the day on edge and swallowing great big buckets of irritation that she couldn’t let spill out on anyone.
She supposed she should be grateful that Brian Simms seemed blissfully unaware of the strife on the set, but by the time she and Ross loaded the Simmses into the car to take them to dinner at a popular seafood restaurant in Santa Monica, she did not want to relay another request to anyone or hear another word about how much anything cost.
And she definitely didn’t want to deal with her appallingly conflicted reactions to Ross Morgan. Loathing and lust were not supposed to be opposite sides of the same coin.
Their table on the terrace of Lobster overlooked the Santa Monica Pier and the stretch of Pacific beyond, above which a magnificent sunset was shaping up.
“This whole trip is kind of like a dream,” Charlie said in wonder.
Brian Simms ruffled his nephew’s hair. “I’m real proud of you, Charlie. I can see you just soaking it all in.” He turned to Shelley, his smile warm. “I sure am glad you worked all this out.”
“Me, too.” She could feel Ross’s gaze on her, but kept her attention focused on the Simms. “The spots are going to be fabulous. We’re very lucky Jake was available.”
Ross Morgan snorted, and then fell blessedly silent. But even when he didn’t speak she was constantly aware of him.
They ordered drinks while the sky streaked red. Snatches of music floated over from the pier, and they could hear the waves kissing up to shore. Shelley tried to relax and soak it all in, but the thought of kissing brought her right back to Ross Morgan.
He was saying something to the Simmses, and though she tuned out the particulars, she actually shivered as the timbre of his voice washed over her. Shivering over his voice?
How ridiculous was that?
She studied him from beneath her lashes, trying to understand his effect on her.
OK, so he was good-looking. Lots of men were good-looking, and as she had discovered with Trey, good-looking didn’t always lead to heart-pounding.
What was it about this particular man?
Why couldn’t she just shrug him off and stop reacting? Shove him into the no-longer-pertinent place in her head where she had filed poor Trey?
She needed Ross out of her thoughts so that she could better focus on her current goals and objectives. With her eyes on the Pacific, she breathed in the ocean air and tuned out his voice completely, and began to examine her failed pursuit of Selena Moore. Which led her to this morning’s humiliating tennis fiasco. Which brought her thoughts right back to the all-too-present Ross Morgan.
No! She looked back out over the beach and drew in another steadying breath. It was time to heed Howard Mellnick’s advice; time to catalogue the positives, not dwell on the negatives. She’d made the Simmses happy and was going to walk away with a string of award-winning commercials. On top of that, she no longer needed to dress up like old or dead movie stars to get through the day. And, for the moment anyway—she stole a quick glance to confirm it—Ross Morgan was behaving himself.
As she watched, he pulled a hunk of lobster from its claw and popped it into his mouth.
He had a great mouth. And long sure fingers. She looked up as he slid one of them between his lips to catch a drip of butter. His gaze met hers and the word “SEX” popped into her consciousness. “HOT” and “STEAMY” followed.
“What time do you have to be on location tomorrow, Charlie?” she asked, though her gaze remained on Ross Morgan. Tomorrow they were shooting in a backyard in Beverly Hills—a scene with the child actors and Benji’s friend.
“They’re picking me up at five-thirty, and . . .”
She didn’t hear the rest of Charlie’s answer. She was trying too hard NOT to think about how Ross looked in the moonlight with his eyes as dark and inscrutable as inkwells. Inkwells?
