Can't Stand the Heat

by Peggy Jaeger

  “They’re all itching to get going, Nikko,” he said.

  With a nod, he replied, “This’ll be quick.”

  Ten minutes later the chefs mobilized as a chaotic unit and brought their food to the dining hall on portable food carts and in coolers. The cleanup crew began on the kitchen once it was empty.

  “I’ll arrange to have Angel’s belongings brought to the hospital,” Stacy told him, “and get him set up with a flight for when he’s discharged. It’s a shame he can’t finish the competition.”

  Nikko looked down at her and shrugged. “Accidents happen,” he said, hearing how gruff his voice sounded on the vast set as it echoed back to them. If he didn’t sit down soon, he was afraid his leg was going to collapse under his weight. Sweat drenched through his shirt and on his face. He swiped the back of his hand across a slick trail of it over his upper lip.

  With a nod, Stacy closed her tablet. “I’ll go make sure everything’s set in the dining hall.”

  When she looked up at him through her glasses, her brows pinched inward.

  She took a step closer, one hand reaching out. He swore he could see compassion mixed with a question on her face and in her gaze. Horrified she was going to ask him if he was okay— or worse, offer to help him—Nikko retreated a few steps and nodded. Stacy stopped, her hand slowly falling down to her side.

  “Good. I’ll be over shortly. I need to get Melora.”

  For a moment she stood, her eyes browsing his own. Then she stepped back and asked, “Will Melora be helping me with collecting the votes again?”

  With a terse nod, he said, “Yeah.” He hesitated as a spasm shot up from his knee to his hip. He swallowed the pain. It took every ounce of pride and fortitude he could summon not to collapse in front of her. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  It was Stacy’s turn to nod. She kept her eyes trained on him for a moment, then, with another quick headshake, said, “Okay. I’m off.”

  It wasn’t until the set door closed behind her that Nikko allowed himself to breathe.

  Chapter Twelve

  The moment she walked into her darkened suite, Stacy kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes, and tossed her tablet onto the bed.

  In the next breath, she raised her arms high over her head to stretch her spine, then slowly lowered from her waist until her hands fell, palms flat to the floor.

  The early-morning location shoot had robbed her of her usual yoga/meditation session and her body was now begging for release.

  She flipped on the bedside light, stripped from her workday clothes and, in her underwear, went into a quick stress-shedding series of poses, starting with a few rounds of savasana..

  The tension that had grown and settled in her shoulders and back during the grueling day began to fade away as she sat, cross-legged, and walked her hands forward on the rug, stretching her spine and hips.

  Her thoughts uncluttered and cleared as she took deep, cleansing breaths between each movement, allowing her body, mind, and spirit to quiet.

  If only she could do the same for Nikko Stamp.

  One look in his eyes, at the tension around his mouth, at the beads of sweat wetting his face, had verified how much pain he was in. She didn’t think he even noticed how frequently he rubbed his thigh or squeezed the muscles through his jeans.

  She’d been about to offer him some help in the kitchen when he’d retreated from her, clamping down on the agony she’d seen cross his face. His movement told her he didn’t want help, especially hers. Either pride or dislike of her—she couldn’t discern which—made him pull away.

  During the dinner filming and then after the votes were taken, he’d seemed to go out of his way to avoid her. Melora had once again joined her, first to bring some food back to the production truck, where she quietly sat with Stacy and ate while they both watched Nikko work, and then to help her gather the votes from the ranch workers. The girl seemed happy to accompany Stacy, interact with some of the cowboys and even the chefs as the two of them made their way along the individual buffet stations.

  It didn’t escape her attention that Melora’s openness closed down a little when they arrived at Riley MacNeill’s station. Both chef and teen had tossed quick glances at one another while Riley explained his dish and then gave them a sample, his gaze darting between them, but lighting on Melora for the majority of the time.

  Riley and Nikko’s daughter were the youngest ones on the ranch and it wasn’t inconceivable that they’d check each other out in the typical fashion of teenagers—shyly and surreptitiously.

  Melora, despite the choppy, spiky haircut and goth makeup, was a very pretty girl. Her skin was flawless, even under the pale pancake foundation she wore, her cheekbones high and rounded, eyelashes thick and long.

  Blue-eyed Riley MacNeill was, Stacy imagined, the type of guy a fifteen-year-old-girl could crush on pretty easily. Tall, lithe, with an impressive pair of muscular arms, he had the brooding, silent kind of charisma and charm women of all ages fell for.

  Her heart warmed a little at the thought the two of them, both such loners, could be friends.

  After dinner service was complete, the chef interviews were finished and the votes were sealed in the safe. Just when she thought she was done, her communication device blared and she had to meet with one of the producers who was having a personal crisis.

  That solved, she glanced down at her cell phone, noted the hour, and hoped her day was finally over.

  Stacy pulled to a standing position, rolled her arms above her head, took a deep, deep breath in and then let it out while allowing her hands, pressed together at the palms, to drop in front of her chest.

  With a shoulder roll, she went into the bathroom and washed her face.

  As she was applying moisturizer to the puckered and dried skin on her arm, her cell phone pinged.

  “Stacy?”

  “Melora. What’s wrong?”

  The girl’s whispered voice sounded tense and troubled.

  “Can you come to the house? Like, right now?”

  “Is everything okay?”

  “N—no. It’s not. Please. Can you come?”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  Stacy threw on a long-sleeved T-shirt and yoga pants and then bolted from the room.

  Melora was waiting at the cabin front door when she came around the corner of the house and pulled it open wide to let her in.

  “Thanks,” the teen said. “I don’t know, like, what to do for him? Who to call to help him?”

  “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” Stacy pulled the shaking girl into her arms, then rubbed a hand down her thin back.

  “It’s Daddy. He’s—”

  “He’s what, Melora?”

  “He’s in so much pain.” The tears pooling in her eyes spilled free and, like waterfalls, cascaded down her cheeks. Her black eye makeup streaked in their wake. “I don’t know how to help him.”

  “Where is he?”

  Melora nodded and said, “He’s in his office. He went in there, like, the minute we got back from dinner, shut himself in.”

  “How do you know he’s in pain and not just working? That he just doesn’t want to be disturbed?”

  Melora swiped at her face, smearing the dripping eyeliner across her cheeks. “I just do.”

  Stacy stifled a sigh. Should she trust an emotional teenager, rife with personal issues and all the idiosyncratic drama that went along with her age, to know when something was truly wrong with her father? Or should she simply try to calm and reassure the girl, noting her father was a difficult man who didn’t want or need anyone’s help, especially hers?

  Remembering what it was like to be fifteen, Stacy decided to trust.

  “Take me to him,” she said.

  Relief overflowed from Melora’s eyes, competing with the tears.

 
Following behind her through the interior of the house, Stacy stopped when Melora did.

  “He’s in here,” she whispered.

  “Call him.”

  Melora nodded. With a gentle rap of her knuckles on the closed door, she said, “Daddy? Can I come in?”

  When no response came back, Stacy knocked. “Mr. Stamp? It’s Stacy Peters. I need a moment of your time.”

  Again, silence, then a muffled, “Go away.”

  “See? He doesn’t sound…right,” Melora said and swiped her sleeve under her nose. “He sounds, like, sick or something.”

  Stacy agreed the usual booming, caustic timbre she’d come to associate with the director was missing from the voice that came from within the room.

  “Mr. Stamp? I’m coming in.”

  With that, she opened the door a crack and peeked in.

  The room was in darkness, save for the dim desk light. Stacy remembered the layout from when she’d been in it the night she’d arrived. A large desk and chair sat across one windowed wall, a leather couch and love seat across another.

  It took her eyes a moment to adjust.

  “I thought…I told you…to…go away.”

  His voice was weak, groggy, and tinged with a spoonful of anger. Stacy moved into the room, Melora on her heels. They could barely make out his figure reclining on the couch.

  Melora flipped the wall switch, instantly bathing the room in bright light from the ceiling fixture.

  “Christ. Dim that damn light,” Nikko roared, his hand shooting up to shield his eyes. Melora adjusted the dimmer.

  He lay, supine, his feet propped up on one of the couch risers, a decorative pillow stuffed behind his head. The rank smell of alcohol, combined with sweat, filled the air around him, and as Stacy drew closer, she could feel the heat piping off his body.

  “Daddy.” Melora ran to her father and knelt down next to the couch. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  Nikko stretched out a hand and swiped it along her cheek. “It’s okay, Melly. I’m just…my leg hurts…is all. Too much standing.”

  The girl started crying again as she pushed up and away from him, a look of horror on her face. “Oh. My. God. You’re drunk. That’s so, like, disgusting.”

  “I’m not, kid, I swear.” His words weren’t slurred, but his breathing was ragged. “I just had a few shots to try and…take the edge off.”

  Melora wasn’t having any of his excuses. She bounded upright and peered down at her father. “I was so worried about you. I thought you were sick. Or worse. And all you’ve been doing is drinking. God!”

  She turned, but her father reached out and grabbed her arm.

  “Melly, please…” Before he could say more, a savage sound, like the howl of an injured animal, shot from his lips. He dropped her arm, then clasped both of his hands around his thigh and squeezed as the sweat on his brow started to drip down his temples.

  “Daddy!” Melora all but fell on top of him, her tears starting again.

  “Melora, move.” Stacy gently tugged on the girl’s arm. “Let me.”

  “Help him. Please.”

  “I will.” She squatted so she was eye level with him. Even in the subdued light, his pallor was stark, his pain palpable.

  “Are the muscles in your leg cramping? Is that what’s causing this?” she asked, her voice low and composed.

  Nikko opened his eyes and stared at her. Raw, unfiltered agony filled them.

  “I can help,” she told him. “But I need to know the cause. Are you spasming or is it a different kind of pain?”

  “Spasms.” The word choked from the back of his throat.

  “Okay. Will you let me help you?”

  She didn’t think he’d be so stubborn as to refuse when he was obviously in misery, but his pride was so monumental and his dislike of her so vast, she just wasn’t sure.

  She waited a few beats before he closed his eyes again and nodded once.

  Sucking back the relieved breath she desperately wanted to expel, Stacy addressed Melora. “I need clean towels, a bucket of hot water, and some lotion. Do you guys have a microwave?”

  A few minutes later, armed with several thick cotton towels soaking in steaming water, Stacy came back into the room. Nikko hadn’t moved an inch since she’d left.

  His fists were balled at his sides, eyes closed, his throat working frequently as he swallowed every few seconds.

  “I’m all set,” Stacy said softly. “I need to get at your leg, though. We need to get your pants off. Okay?”

  Under lids that were hooded and distrustful, his eyes raked her face.

  “I—I’m sorry. I need to work skin to skin. The towels are drenched and heated. They need to lay over your bare leg so the heat dilates and relaxes your muscles. Otherwise, this won’t work and all you’ll be is... well, wet.”

  Hating how scattered and unsure she sounded, Stacy took a mental breath. “If you could get in a Jacuzzi or something heated like a whirlpool bath, that would work the same way.”

  “There’s no Jacuzzi here.”

  His deep, pain-tinged voiced reverberated in the air.

  With a nod, Stacy said, “Then this is the best option available. Okay?”

  “Melora?” His gaze never left her face.

  “I asked her to wait outside. I figured you wouldn’t want her to see you like this. She’s okay, though. Really. Just worried about you.”

  Nikko nodded and drew in a deep breath. Without another word, his hands moved to his belt. He undid it, then opened the button on his pants and dragged the zipper down.

  He lifted his hips, but the effort blasted an oath from his lips as his hand sailed back to grip his thigh.

  “Let me,” she said. “Please.” Gently, she slid his pants down over his hips, his legs, and then off.

  Heat soaked her face when she spied the black boxers covering him. Compassion replaced the embarrassment when her gaze caught the long, jagged scars tearing down the length of his thigh to his knee. Dozens of impressions from surgical staples followed the scars on both sides. His leg was pink, the skin appearing healthy, but the scars were long, roped, and thick. The thigh itself was swollen when she compared to its twin.

  “This is going to be hot,” she told him, pulling a dripping towel from the bucket. Steam shot up from the cotton blend. “I’m going to lay it on your thigh for a few minutes to dilate the muscles. This helps alleviate the cramping. Okay?”

  He nodded, his eyes half-opened now, watching her.

  Stacy wrung the excess water from the towel, flicked it open, and positioned it on his thigh.

  A hiss spilled from between his barely parted lips and one hand shot out to grip the back of the couch.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s hot. But it really has to be. I won’t let you burn. I promise.”

  Nikko closed his eyes while she put another cloth alongside the first one.

  Every minute or so she removed one of the towels and replaced it with a fresh one. She worked in silence, the only sound Nikko’s deep inhalations.

  Soon, his death grip on the couch back eased and she watched his shoulders begin to drop and relax from their frozen, lifted position.

  She removed the towels and ran a hand across the fleshy part of his thigh, relieved to feel the muscles underneath were no longer bound tight.

  At her touch, his eyes flew open, his gaze stabbing. Her insides quivered and she took a deep breath to settle them.

  “Your muscles are starting to relax,” she explained, her tongue wetting her dry lips. “They can be massaged now to fully unwind them, or else they’ll just tense up again. Okay?”

  “Is that why you asked Melora for lotion?” His voice sounded as if he’d gargled with sandpaper: harsh and coarse.

  “Yes. It helps aid the massage. May I?”

  �
��Go ahead.”

  She started at the top of his thigh, at the insertion point of the muscle, her hands slipping under the hem of his boxers. Keeping her gaze trained on his leg, she kneaded, rolled, and squeezed the skin and underlying structures between her strong fingers. She’d lathered up her hands with a generous amount of the sweet, rose-scented lotion and then rubbed her palms together to warm them before touching him. Back and forth, around, up and down, her fingers gripped, flexed, and caressed his skin.

  When was the last time she’d touched a man’s body so intimately? So sensually?

  They weren’t lovers—not even friends, truth be told—and here she was stroking his naked flesh, learning the feel of him, of his body, as if they were.

  Stacy’s gaze roamed down his injured leg, crossed to the other one.

  Touch. It was such an intimate act between two people. Almost like making love. Coming to know the texture of the other person’s skin; learning which stroke aroused and stirred; which one stimulated and shocked. It didn’t escape her she was the only one doing the touching right now, and it couldn’t in any way, shape, or thought be construed as sexual.

  A soft moan escaped from him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  Stacy let her eyes drift close, her hands continuing their work. Focusing her mind on her actions, she was able to detect subtle changes under her fingers, actually feel the muscles begin to return to a static, slackened state.

  Nikko stayed silent, accepting her ministrations without comment or complaint.

  What would it be like to have him accept her the same way?

  The knot of anxious tension that wound within her daily while in his presence, while waiting for him to slant an annoyed glance or say something condescending to her, was currently absent. Stacy was totally in charge of the situation and Nikko was mutely compliant.

  Oh, to have things between them be the same during work hours.

  It took a long while before she was satisfied the muscles had indeed unwound enough for her to stop. She glanced up at Nikko’s face. Miraculously, he’d fallen asleep. The deep, even tempo of his breaths told her she’d been able to give him the relief his body and mind craved.