Seduced by Love, Claimed by Passion~Summer Box Set

by Helen Conrad

  With his money, Nick could well afford to be kind, Shane thought, but nevertheless she was moved by Scottie’s loss. “I’m sorry about your father,” she murmured.

  He shrugged, obviously trying to push away his sorrowful feelings. “Everybody’s got to die sometime. Dad died doing what he liked best. He loved the business. So do I,” he told her, his bubbly tone returning. “I’m studying to be a director.”

  Shane forced a smile. For a moment she was silent, looking out the window again, straining to see the terrain that was partially hidden from her by a curtain of shimmering rain. “I think I’ve arrived in the middle of your flood season,” she said glibly, to lighten the mood.

  “Yeah, the rain is pretty bad, isn’t it?” Scottie agreed. “Nick’s not too thrilled about this weather. We were ahead of schedule until today.”

  For the next twenty minutes he droned on and on about his idol. Shane took a few more notes and chalked off the rest of it as hero worship. Then they arrived at the set. Scottie brought the car to a stop as close as possible to the entrance of the main tent. He had no way of knowing that it was also next to a puddle of mud. Neither did Shane . . . until she stepped into it getting out of the car. Her right shoe slid into the oozing mass, the mud sucking at her toes through the open, high-heeled sandal.

  Stepping gingerly onto harder ground, muttering an oath under her breath, Shane took it as an omen.

  “Can I be of any help?”

  The deep voice rumbled at Shane, surrounding her on all four sides. She didn’t even have to look up and into his tanned face to know that voice belonged to Nick Rutledge.

  Chapter Two

  Shane stood, lopsided, with the strap of her formerly light brown shoe dangling from her fingertips. Mud oozed from the shoe and plopped to the ground. Her right leg was splattered with a not-so-fine layer of mud, and she didn’t even dare look down at her foot. It felt awful. She definitely wasn’t putting her best foot forward to meet America’s latest heartthrob.

  Actually, she didn’t meet mm; she met his chest When she turned toward the owner of that deep, resonant voice, the first thing she encountered was wall-to-wall chest barely covered by a white shirt that was slashed to the waist. Muscles rippled in all directions beneath the tanned skin.

  “Cinderella, I presume,” said the resonant voice, taking the shoe from her fingers.

  For one of the very first times in her life, as she looked up into his face, Shane was at a loss for words. The man was obviously laughing at her, and she should have been annoyed with him, as annoyed as she was with Banks for sending her here in the first place. But his physical presence was rather overwhelming, and for the moment she was reduced to speechlessness.

  The man’s face was flawless—absolutely, completely flawless. It was only inches away; it was without the benefit of makeup or cunning lighting . . . and it was perfect. He really did look the same off-screen as on! His high cheekbones gave his face a sensual look that blended magnificently with the neatly trimmed Van Dyke beard and moustache he sported. The latter gave him a bit of a devilish quality, as did the slightly unruly deep brown hair that was just a tad away from straight. Even his nose was perfect, something that always struck Shane as an oddity. Noses hardly ever seemed to fit, being too large, too small, with nostrils too flared or pinched, or with a bump in the absolutely worst place. His was fashioned just right for his face. If the man had a plastic surgeon, he was the world’s best, Shane decided. The only thing that kept Nick Rutledge from having “Perfect” stamped on his forehead was the fact that he had gray eyes. A face like that should have had sky-blue eyes. This was probably God’s way of showing the world that no one is perfection personified. But Nick Rutledge came darned close. Shane decided he had to have a brain as quick as cold oatmeal. Anything more would be totally unfair.

  She suddenly realized that while she’d been studying him, Nick had been doing some minute inspecting of his own. She tossed her proud head, the motion pushing her abundant hair over her shoulder. She couldn’t help wondering how well she scored in his opinion, even while she told herself that the mere idea of rating high with him was utter foolishness. Still, she was not one to underestimate any of her attributes, and she knew that what Nick was seeing was a woman whom some had called beautiful. Her fine-boned face had a lingering allure, a power that whispered of her loveliness long after she’d left a room.

  Nick’s gray eyes, temporarily finished with their examination, shifted to Scottie, who still stood awkwardly at Shane’s side. “You picked an awful day to bring your girl friend to the set, Scottie.” He gave Shane a wide smile. “Let me see if I can help you salvage the situation. Here, take this to the prop area and have them clean it up,” Nick told Scottie, handing him the shoe.

  Shane was totally unprepared for what happened next. As Scottie hurried away on his mission, Nick scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the center of the activity, beneath the tent. She stared at him, openmouthed, trying not to think how good his arms felt around her.

  “Mabel, I need a towel,” Nick called out, depositing Shane on a blue studio chair. Almost reluctantly, she released her balancing hold from about his neck.

  A nondescript person suddenly emerged from the background to thrust a towel into Nick’s hand. He took it without ever breaking eye contact with Shane.

  “What is it you think you’re doing?” Shane demanded, finally finding her voice. She stared as Nick began wiping the mud away from her leg, using long, slow strokes. His strong fingers gently gripped her calf, sending all sorts of strange sensations colliding into one another.

  “Getting you cleaned up, of course,” Nick said innocently, as if he were unaware of the effect he was having on her.

  Shane tried not to squirm as he reached up higher, going beneath her knee. She snatched the towel away from him. “I can do this myself, thank you,” she informed him, hoping that the hot flush she felt was not visible. She took a deep, deep breath as she rubbed the towel over her leg.

  Nick, squatting before her, simply watched. Shane grew self-conscious.

  “Do you have to stare like that?” she asked, annoyed at her discomfort.

  “Best-looking leg I’ve seen in a long time,” Nick told her. “Too bad it belongs to Scottie,” he murmured under his breath.

  “It doesn’t belong to Scottie,” she informed him, almost haughtily.

  “Oh, good; then, there’s hope,” Nick said, a twinkle in his eyes.

  She stopped rubbing. “It belongs to me,” she announced. Was this some throwback who considered women to be chattel?

  “Even better,” Nick said, taking the towel out of her hands. For a moment, his eyes held her prisoner of a nameless magic. She could feel her heart thumping erratically in response.

  “Here’s the shoe, Miss McCallister,” Scottie called out, returning to the scene. “I’m really sorry.”

  “McCallister?” Nick echoed, looking very surprised.

  It pleased Shane to unnerve him slightly. After all, it was only fair. He had unnerved her a great deal in only a few short minutes.

  “I’m Shane McCallister,” she told him, rising. Her delivery was spoiled by the fact that she tottered a little. Nick’s fingers, strong as steel, gripped her elbow to steady her.

  “I thought you were supposed to be a man,” he said.

  “I failed the physical,” she said dryly.

  His eyes swept over the length and breadth of her, lingering for a moment on the appreciable swell of her breasts beneath the smoke-blue nylon blouse.

  “So I see.”

  He looked amused at his own mistake, taking the shoe Scottie offered. “Here, let me,” and, not waiting for an answer, he bent down and took her newly cleaned foot in his hand. In an effort to regain her equilibrium, Shane reached out and made a grab for Nick’s head. Her fingers sank down into a soft mat of dark hair. Nick gave no indication of whether she was hurting him or not, and she subdued an urge to pull at the roots.

  “Y
ou’ll have to forgive my mistake,” he said easily.

  Dear Heaven! She’d never known that having someone touch the sole of her foot could feel so ... so erotic. She worked at steadying her breath.

  “All Rendezvous told me was that Shane McCallister was coming out to interview me, and with a name like Shane, I just naturally assumed you were a man.”

  “If I were a man, I wouldn’t be here doing this interview,” Shane said, trying hard to be dignified while nearly tottering over.

  Nick had a powerful body. He rose slowly and the process was a little overwhelming. The ends of Shane’s fingertips tingled as they threaded from his hair, along his neck and powerful back. She felt, too, as if he had touched her all over even though he hadn’t touched her at all.

  “Well, Shane, you won’t have to be doing it anyway. I’ve changed my mind. No interview,” he told her, and stepped back out of the circle of her arms.

  Was she supposed to beg him to do an interview she didn’t want to do in the first place? She wasn’t about to go back to Banks and say she’d washed out. “Wait, don’t be hasty,” she said, putting a hand on his arm in order to keep him from walking away.

  Nick stopped. “Okay,” he said, eyeing her closely. “Convince me.” He folded his arms over his massive chest and made Shane feel as if she were standing before some eighteenth-century buccaneer. All around her, crew members were drawing in closer to watch.

  “Why this sudden wavering from no to yes to no again?” she asked. There, let him be on the defensive for a minute.

  But he wasn’t. “Reporters lie,” he answered simply. “In a weak moment, my agent talked me into giving an interview. But the truth is uninspiring to reporters, so they make up their own stories. Why should I help?”

  Ball back in my court, Shane thought resolutely. “What about your fans?” she countered. “You haven’t given a personal interview in two years.”

  “I’m very grateful to my fans,” he said in a sincere way. Then one eyebrow rose into an arch like a cupid’s bow. “What about them?”

  “Don’t you think that they deserve a story right from your own lips?” she asked. And what sensuous lips they were, her wicked mind added. What was getting into her? “I don’t know if you are personally acquainted with our magazine, Mr. Rutledge, but we do in-depth profiles on people. It is an intimate, deep interview—“

  “How intimate?” he asked slyly.

  She chose to ignore his question and its obvious inference. “—and I never alter facts.”

  “Nice to know,” he commented, then took a deep breath. “I like your perfume.”

  “Fine,” she said dismissively. “Does that cinch the deal?” Who would ever believe that she was actually trying to talk a Hollywood personality into giving an interview? She had such high goals, such great aspirations. They included being in the eye of a hurricane, at the center of a volcano, on top of a world event—not mingling with tinsel-town people. But Meg had been right. Rutledge was a dynamic personality, and a story like this might be better even than an interview with the President.

  “Well?” she asked, trying to look appealing.

  “We have a deal,” he said in a sudden, inexplicable reversal. He reached for her hand and shook it. A wave of electricity shot through her body as his fingers curled about hers.

  Shane smiled, relieved. “Good. Now, if you would be so kind as to direct me to your secretary or whoever has your schedule for the next month, I’ll try to plan my life around yours—“

  “I like that,” he said, smiling in a devilish way.

  That smile made her nervous, but she thought she hid it well. “Then, we have an understanding?”

  “I hope so.” The words were almost purred.

  She was in deep trouble. She knew it by the way her insides felt. Everything was pulling into a tight, quivering knot. It was going to be a hell of a month. Better set him straight now, her mind warned, before it was too late. Too late for whom, she didn’t bother exploring.

  “Mr. Rutledge,” she said, lowering her voice as her eyes swept over the various people who stood well within earshot. “I am a professional, and I am here strictly for the purpose of doing an interview.” There, that sounded firm. She congratulated herself.

  But his eyes teased her, as if throwing her words back at her. “That remains to be seen. And my friends call me Nick.” With that, he winked, and excused himself for a moment. Shane was left alone with a sea of curious eyes examining her. Then, slowly, the crew members began to amble away and resume their work.

  “Didn’t I tell you he was great?” Scottie asked.

  Shane had forgotten about him. She seemed to have forgotten a lot of things in Nick’s presence, like how to maintain her poise. She didn’t like men who unnerved her. Until this larger-than-life character, the only other man who had accomplished that feat was Alan Sherman, and she had married him, much to her everlasting chagrin. Six months later, clutching her divorce papers in her hands, she had formed a hard opinion of overwhelmingly good looking men.

  Shane let Scottie ramble on amiably as she tried to regain her outward calm, although nothing at the moment could cool the embers inside. Their heat came from the Rutledge mystique.

  Nick returned in five minutes. “Gypsy’s getting a schedule together for you right now,” he said.

  “Gypsy?” she asked.

  “My secretary.”

  He would have a secretary named Gypsy, Shane thought. Somehow it fit.

  “In the meantime, have you had dinner?” he asked.

  “I had a sandwich on the plane,” she told him.

  “Sandwiches don’t count,” he assured her, taking her hand. She left it there for a moment, absorbing the warmth that seeped into her. Every movement of his was so ... so personal, she thought. He acted almost as if they were old friends instead of virtual strangers.

  “Wait a minute,” she protested before she was whisked away. “Aren’t you in the middle of shooting? How can you leave?”

  “I can leave because we’re not shooting. The Lord High Protector is supposed to be standing on the deck with the wind in his hair and the sun smiling down upon his sails,” he explained humorously. “Nowhere in the script does it read that he’s supposed to be drowning in the process. The weatherman says there’s no relief in sight, so we stop shooting. Satisfied?” She nodded. “Good. Give me a minute to change—unless”—he paused, a smile curling the corners of his mouth—“you’d like to describe the way I get out of my costume— strictly for your article, of course.”

  She didn’t like his laughing at her. Her face did not move a muscle as she replied icily, “The interview is not supposed to be that intimate.”

  The broad shoulders shrugged. “Too bad. Scottie, show Shane around the set and bring her back here to meet me in ten minutes.”

  “C’mon,” Scottie urged. “You’ll like everybody,” he told her. Shane cast one disparaging glance in Nick’s direction and followed Scottie. He introduced her to a host of cameramen, propmen, stunt men and women, and supporting actors. She tried hard to remember which face went with which name, because she fully intended to interview as many of them as she could in order to add weight and depth to a theory she was developing about Nick.

  Shane had just met the wardrobe mistress when the sound of a female’s loud voice pierced the air with a chalk-scraping screech.

  “Liar!” the woman, dressed in a very revealing costume of the era, spat at Nick’s retreating back. She kicked one of the light stands, sending it sprawling, then wheeled and stormed away.

  “That,” Nick said, taking hold of Shane’s elbow, “is our temperamental leading lady, Adrienne Avery. She is your proverbial hellcat.”

  “What’s she so angry about?” Shane asked. In the background she heard a series of crashes, diminishing in loudness. Adrienne was obviously kicking and destroying everything in her path.

  Nick thanked Scottie, then hustled Shane across the set. He opened an umbrella and held it ov
er her head as he guided her toward his car. “I promised Adrienne dinner,” he mumbled.

  “She must have been really hungry,” Shane said wryly. “Look, I don’t want to cause any problems,” she protested. He was still holding her elbow, as well as the umbrella. In addition, somehow, he was managing to rub his forearm against her breast. His expression was innocent as a babe’s, but Shane would have placed a bet that he knew exactly what he was doing. She was having trouble maintaining any semblance of coolness, inside or out.

  He opened the car door. There was nothing to do but get in, which she did. “You don’t have to take me out to dinner,” she insisted.

  “Oh, but I do,” he said. Then he hastily went around the car and in on his side. “You’ve shown me the error of my ways,” he told her, patting her leg. Actually, it was more like her thigh. Why did he have to keep touching her?

  “I have?” she asked. Her throat felt dry.

  “Yes, I should mingle more freely with the press,” he said, starting up the Ferrari.

  “I had no idea I was so persuasive,” she muttered, trying to calm the dart of heat that was shooting through her from its point of origin on her thigh.

  “Oh, but you are,” the low voice assured her. “What’s your pleasure?”

  She wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly. “What?”

  “Food.” Nick laughed as she squirmed uncomfortably.

  If looks could kill, she thought, glaring at him, the man would be in the morgue in ten minutes. Eleven, tops.

  “Do you like French, Chinese, seafood, what?” he asked.

  “Seafood,” she answered, grasping at the first thing that sounded right.