by Brenda Joyce
Belinda was at her word processor, and she ignored it. The new scene was hot, an action sequence, and she couldn’t stop. Besides, it was probably Vince, figuring that she had changed her mind since last night about seeing him. Her mother, who had arrived yesterday to take care of her, poked her head into her study. “Dear?”
“Mom, take a message,” Belinda said irritably. “I have an answering machine, you should—oh, hell.” She stood.
“It’s a man, and he won’t leave his name. He says it’s urgent,” Nancy said, frowning. “He sounds familiar.”
Belinda picked up the phone. She knew it was Vince. “Vince, listen,” she snapped. “I meant what I said last night. Every word.”
There was a pause. “Who’s Vince?”
Belinda knew that voice. She flushed. “Jack.”
“Poor Vince,” Jack said, a smile in his tone. “Is my timing off?”
Her heart was pounding erratically, and it annoyed her. What could he possibly want? “Yes.”
“If I were a lesser man, or maybe a better one, I’d tell you I’ll call back later. But I won’t. How are you?” His tone became intense.
“Fine.”
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
She didn’t respond.
“A lot. That’s not a line. I want to see you—soon.”
Belinda didn’t hesitate. “You still come on like a Mack truck.”
He chuckled. “Two of a kind. Maybe it’s you. Maybe you bring that out in me. Well? What are you doing tonight?”
His tone was so damn seductive. It was stirring up urgent memories. His breath, hot, on her ear; his hands, hotter, sliding over her breasts. “I don’t think so. I’m busy.”
“Well, at least I know Vince is out of the running,” he joked.
Another silence fell. She imagined his cupping her bare buttocks and pulling her up hard against his massive prick, rubbing against her. Slick, slicker …
“How about tomorrow night? Some place quiet and intimate, so we can get reacquainted.”
“I already have plans for tomorrow night,” she lied. Her tone had gotten husky. “After all, it’s Saturday.”
“Sunday.”
“I don’t think so.”
Now he was silent, assessing, she guessed. “I get the feeling you’re ticked at me. Why?”
“I’m not ticked at you,” she said stiffly. Life would be so much easier if she were angry. “Look, Jack, Aspen was fun. Like I said. But this is real life. And I have no desire to get involved with a Hollywood star.”
“And you think I lack tact,” Jack said.
“Sorry,” Belinda said lightly. At that moment her mind decided to play havoc, and she recalled vividly how he had pulled her into his arms after they had made love—and how they had fallen asleep in each other’s embrace.
“Come on, sweetheart, break down. Besides, Aspen was more than just fun, and you know it.”
“Jack, I’m working. I’m in the middle of a big scene. I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this. Good-bye.” She hung up.
“Who was that, dear?” Nancy asked as she strode back to her study.
Belinda stared at her mother, wondering what Nancy would do if she knew it had been Jack on the phone. “Just some arrogant jerk, Mom. Nobody important.”
She had lost the drive, the creative momentum. She wrote another page, then deleted the whole thing.
His damn face kept superimposing itself on the screen.
Her traitorous inner self said, I wish I had said yes.
84
One thing that Peter Lansing prided himself on was the fact that he was a gentleman.
He could not, in good conscience, forget the sound of Melody’s fragile, vulnerable voice on his answering machine. So abject, so apologetic.
Had he been too rough on her?
He returned her call.
About five hours later he was sitting in her living room, watching her carry in a tray of hors d’oeuvres. He noticed she had most definitely gone out of her way to dress for him, in a purple silk dress that was perfect with her hair and her curves, and it was low-cut too. She was wearing contacts and makeup, and the effect was dynamite. She placed the tray next to their drinks and smiled tentatively. He smiled back. She was nervous and shy; he was horny as hell. It made him feel like a heel.
“Peter, I want to set the record straight,” Melody said, twisting her hands nervously.
He watched her steadily. She had beautiful eyes. He wanted to hear what she was going to say.
“You’re wrong about Jack and me. We’re not lovers, and we have never been lovers.”
Lansing stared.
“But you were right in a way—I was in love with Jack for years. But he never knew it. I made a play for him recently and he turned me down, which is why I was acting so strange.” She looked at her hands. “I was hurt, and I wasn’t ready for another man, Peter. But now I realize it was all just fantasies on my part.”
Lansing, with the unerring instinct of an investigator, knew she was telling the truth. For the most part. A sense deep inside told him she was hiding something—something that made him uneasy, but he couldn’t pinpoint it. He was too busy thinking—she and Jack weren’t lovers. It felt damn good.
“Do you still love him?”
She sighed. Her gaze was level and luminous. “I’m trying, Peter, to put my infatuation behind me. It’s hard.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” he said.
She grilled salmon steaks for them while he kept her company in the kitchen. He enjoyed watching her. Conversation was casual, a touch stilted at first, and Peter knew Melody was embarrassed about having told him such intimate things. He told a few funny stories, and soon had her smiling. He departed early.
At the door she stood poised, waiting, so he kissed her—nothing all-out, just light and short. To his surprise, she pressed against him, her arms going around his neck, returning his kiss and deepening it. He had to remember that she was in love with Jack, and he was damned if he was going to be a surrogate.
“I’ll call you soon,” he said, and she smiled.
She was smiling even more when she had closed the door and he was gone.
A smile of triumph.
Were all men such fools?
She thought of The Plan and positively tingled.
85
Finding out where she lived was easy—she was listed.
He never chased broads. Ever. But this was different. So he was chasing her all the way to Laguna Beach.
Belinda did not have a chance in hell. Not when he was determined, not when he was going to pour on his charm and keep pouring it on, until she fell madly in love with him.
He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t wait for the day when he would be face-to-face with Glassman. Couldn’t wait to see the expression on his face. Maybe he would say: “Aren’t you going to welcome me into the family?”
Glassman would look at him blankly.
Jack would laugh. “Your daughter and I were married last night.”
Triumph.
Revenge.
He could taste it, and it was sweet.
86
He was the last person she was expecting.
Belinda opened the door and felt a tide of hot, threatening emotion. He looked so good. He had come to see her. She was glad, damn glad. “Jack.” He didn’t smile. “Hi.”
All her protective defense mechanisms came surging back. “What are you doing here?”
“You’re not giving me a chance,” Jack said intensely. “It’s not fair.”
She felt herself weaken and instantly dammed up the softness. “I don’t have to be fair, Jack.”
“It’s cold out—it’s about to rain. May I come in?”
It was cold out, just her luck—as if even the weather were conspiring against her. She stepped silently aside. Jack moved past her, and Belinda slammed the door harder than she’d intended. When she turned to face him he was smiling tentatively, looking unsure. Sober. She h
ad never been more nervous in her life.
“How about some coffee?” Jack said.
“Fine.” She felt him following her into the kitchen. What did he want? God, how was she going to handle this? “I only have instant.”
“That’s okay. You have a nice place here.”
She shot him a glance to see if he meant it, and he seemed sincere. He also seemed hesitant, maybe nervous too. “Thanks. Is black okay? I’m out of milk.”
“Black’s fine,” Jack said, standing just behind her as she put on the kettle. When she turned she was almost in his arms, uncomfortably close, but he didn’t do the polite thing. He didn’t step back. She brushed hair out of her face. This is ridiculous, she thought. To be so nervous. To fight to be cold. When I really don’t want to be cold at all … just the opposite. Inside, she could feel a stirring of arousal.
“Belinda,” Jack said, taking her by the shoulders.
She tensed.
“I’m sorry for flying off the handle in Aspen. For the name-calling. I didn’t mean it.”
She heard herself say, “I know.” She was very conscious of his hands on her.
“I wanted to spend the whole weekend with you.” He smiled ruefully. “I’m not used to getting jilted—it doesn’t happen too often.”
“I’ll bet it never happens.” She smiled slightly, relaxing a little.
“Not in a while,” he said modestly. “I guess I’m a bit spoiled.”
“A bit,” she agreed. She returned his gaze, then found herself looking at his mouth. Oh, damn, she thought, he’s going to kiss me. “I shouldn’t have sneaked out like that,” she said breathlessly, watching his lips part. He leaned closer.
“No,” he said softly. “You shouldn’t have. Can’t we start over?”
“Jack.” A feeble protest.
His face was very close. “Just give me a chance. I’m not the bastard you think I am. You don’t even know me. It’s not fair to judge me based on bad press.”
It wasn’t fair, and she knew it. She closed her eyes. His mouth touched hers—soft and fragile, brushing. His hands slid to her shoulder blades, but he didn’t press her against him. They looked at each other.
“Dinner? Tonight?” He kissed her again, this time more deeply. “Tonight at seven?”
“I don’t want to complicate my life,” she said.
He suddenly grinned and threw a glance at the ceiling. “Only you, Belinda, would call me a complication. You do know, lady, that you have a way with words?”
“If I didn’t, I’d be in trouble.”
“Not with me you wouldn’t. Never with me. I’ll pick you up.”
She hesitated only a moment more. “All right.”
They kissed again.
Later, after he was gone, she stared out at her driveway. What am I doing? she thought in desperation. She could feel it coming—the big plunge.
87
Nancy sat very still in Belinda’s vast living room. From Belinda’s study came the rapid-fire, staccato typing sounding, a constant background noise. Nancy leaned forward to pick up her Scotch. She drained it and got up to make another one.
She felt sick and frightened inside.
What had he been doing here?
She would probably have met him face-to-face if she hadn’t seen him approaching the front door and recognized him immediately. She had fled to her bedroom in horror and hatred and cowered there, unable to think.
The man responsible for her life’s ruin. Jack Ford.
Once he had been her lover.
And now she hated him.
God, did she hate him!
Jack Ford had ruined her marriage. Her life. It was as simple as that. He had been the pivotal element. Had he not been there that summer, none of it would have happened—her betrayal of Abe, his anger, his turning away from her. The miscarriage of their son—which Abe had never forgiven her for. And he had lied. He hadn’t loved her. He had only used her. If he had loved her, he would have come to her when she’d needed him, after Abe found out and she miscarried. And now the man she most wanted to have never existed was somehow involved with her daughter.
Oh, God.
If it was a coincidence, it was too horrible and ironic.
If it wasn’t a coincidence—and how could it be?—what did he want? Money? Or was his interest in Belinda somehow tied in to the screenplay she had sold, the one he was going to star in? Nancy knew about Abe’s takeover of North-Star and very clearly recalled that the studio had been the one to buy Belinda’s screenplay for Ford. Everything was connected—somehow. Something terrible was happening—she knew it with a mother’s eerie intuition. She could feel it.
She wanted to protect her daughter.
And now, when she thought of Belinda with him, she felt sick, about to vomit. She couldn’t let this go any farther.
From outside the kitchen she had eavesdropped, barely able to breathe, on their brief conversation before he had left. Jack had been charming. She could hear a note of defiant belligerence in her daughter’s tone. It increased her horror. This was not a first time for them. They had seen each other before. Their emotions were too complex, too developed—she had to do something.
She could not let Belinda see that man tonight.
88
Jack was whistling when he got back to his apartment.
Things were looking good.
Very good.
He picked up the paper and shook it, tried to read. He saw Belinda’s face. Felt arousal. Life was so ironic—she was a pawn now in an ugly game, but she really did turn him on. The front door opened, and although Jack couldn’t see the door from the kitchen, he heard voices—Rick’s and a husky female voice he remembered from yesterday, belonging to the very pretty dark girl, Lydia.
Rick was saying, “Yeah, but they should have known all along!” And his tone was different from the brooding, hostile one Jack was used to. Happy. That was the only way to describe it.
“What are they, mind readers? Like you, smartass?”
They both started laughing—giggling, really.
Jack had to smile. Rick had never sounded like this—like a normal kid. It thrilled him.
“Oh, Jack. Didn’t know you were home,” Rick said, stopping in his tracks and dropping Lydia’s hand. He flushed.
“Hi,” Lydia said, flashing him a big smile.
“Ignore me, Rick, Lydia. Sorry, kid, but I’m going to be in for a while, if you guys can handle it.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Lydia said quickly.
“We rented some movies,” Rick said, holding up a bulging bag.
“You guys gonna have a movie marathon?” Jack asked. Lydia was leaning against Rick. A hand on his shoulder. Very affectionate.
“Yeah,” Rick said and shot Lydia a warm glance.
Wow! Jack thought as they disappeared. He decided he’d hole up in his bedroom and do some paperwork there, give them some space. He was so delighted to see Rick with a friend and a girlfriend all in one—especially an obviously nice girl.
The TV was on now, and their conversation had ceased. Jack poured himself a cup of coffee, glad to be distracted. He picked up the paper and stepped out of the kitchen.
They were sitting on the sofa, necking.
Jack hesitated. Break it up? Ignore it? They obviously couldn’t do anything while he was home—but what about later? Should he even bother to stop them? She was an innocent girl. He said, “Rick, may I speak to you, please?” and walked into his bedroom.
Rick came in, turned to him, and Jack frowned. He wasn’t sure what to do.
“Close the door,” he said.
“Okay.”
“Look, Rick, I know that you two are going to do what you want to do. I mean, I can make it difficult for you, but eventually you’ll find a way.”
“Jack—”
“Wait. Lydia is a nice girl. I think you should treat her with respect.”
“I know she’s a nice girl,” Rick said seriously. “A very
nice girl. Don’t worry.”
Jack smiled, immensely relieved.
“And she happens to like me too,” Rick added.
“I can see that. Listen, I want to tell you something about women—girls—that it took me years to realize. Women are much more emotional than we are when it comes to sex. A guy can screw some broad and not give a damn who she is, walk away, and never think twice about it. But most women can’t have sex without becoming emotionally involved. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Rick nodded. “I think so.”
“I mean most regular woman. You’ve had experience only with hookers. That’s different.”
“I know.”
“Lots of girls at Lydia’s age aren’t ready for sex—emotionally.”
Rick nodded.
Jack was surprised he wasn’t defensive. “Maybe you should just be friends with her and use that phone number I gave you.”
Rick scowled. “I don’t want to screw those whores anymore.”
Jack shrugged. “End of lecture. Just wanted to give you something to think about.”
Rick nodded, closed the door, and sat on the couch beside Lydia, who snuggled up against him instantly. Making him feel warm all over again.
“Was it bad?” she asked.
Rick laughed. “He told me that you’re a ‘nice’ girl.”
Lydia started cracking up, and Rick joined her.
89
Vince closed the front door behind him, leaned on it, and stared at the kitchen-living area, which was a shambles as always. Mary would be home any time, he thought indifferently, walking toward their bedroom. He supposed his timing sucked. He pulled a suitcase out from under the bed and opened all the drawers in his bureau. He began piling clothes in.
The stab of pain shafted him again, through a general feeling of numbness. When had the pain started to give way to the numbness? He wasn’t really sure.
Last night, facing the overwhelming realization that he had lost Belinda—no, that he had never even had her—had been the most awful, painful time of his life. He had driven around in circles all night, grieving and hurting. He had finally gone home at dawn.
