by Ruth Langan
“I’m sorry.” She backed up. “I can see that you’d like to be left alone.”
“Yes.” He bit the word off. But as she started to walk away, he laid a hand on her arm. “Wait. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not very good company right now. But that doesn’t give me the right to send you back to that cold room.” He released his hold on her. “I was—” he took a deep breath “—I was just going to get a drink. Care to join me?”
“All right.” She felt trapped. On the one hand she hated to remain here, knowing she was intruding on his dark thoughts. But on the other hand, her room was freezing. And she was far too tense to get back to sleep. Maybe a drink would relax her enough that she could face her bed, allowing him some privacy.
He walked to the kitchen and located the brandy and two tumblers, then carried them to the coffee table. He poured and handed one to Ciara, before downing the other in one long swallow. He refilled his glass, then carried it to the window, where he paused to stare into the blackness.
Ciara sat on the sofa and sipped her brandy in silence. She glanced at Jace, wondering where he’d gone in his mind. Wherever it was, it was too painful for words.
He was barefoot and shirtless, jeans unsnapped and riding low on his hips as though he’d gotten up from his bed, too angry and restless to give a thought to anything but getting away from his demons. She studied the hard, corded muscles of his back and shoulders, and could see the way he clenched and unclenched his fist at his side as he stared, unseeing, into the night.
His torment was so real, so deep, she felt herself wishing she knew of some way to help. Instead, she merely held her tongue, watching and waiting, and feeling entirely helpless.
When he finally spoke, he continued staring out the window, his voice tight, angry, as though each word were being torn from his heart. “I told you about the bomb I defused.”
“Yes.” She waited, tensing for whatever was to come.
“There was another bomb. One I…couldn’t defuse One I didn’t even know about until it detonated.”
“Were you—” she nearly swallowed the rest of the question and it came out in a terrified whisper “—wounded?”
He didn’t respond at first, merely sipped his drink. And continued to stare outside, thrust back in time to that event. Seeing the blinding lights. Hearing the screams. Smelling the death all around him as the thunderous explosion seemed to split the heavens.
His voice, when he spoke again, was thick. “When terrorists plant bombs, they do it with an eye to achieving the maximum destruction possible. This was an apartment building used by American television journalists and United Nations personnel. It was detonated before dawn, when the occupants would be sleeping and therefore most vulnerable. There was no warning. One minute, we were sleeping. The next, we were flung about like rag dolls. Some of us on fire. Some of us missing arms and legs.” His tone lowered. “And those were the lucky ones.”
Ciara shivered as he lifted the glass to his lips and drank again.
He drew in a ragged breath, amazed that he could speak of this. It was the first time, since he’d been debriefed by the government authorities investigating the terrorist activities, that he’d been able to put it all into words. But now that he’d begun, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. It came pouring out.
“There was a woman. Ireina Dubrova. She was a journalist with an international news agency. We’d been colleagues first, and then lovers. She was…torn from my arms. I crawled through the smoke and rubble, calling her name until I found her. She…died there while I held her. Afterward, I spent about six weeks in the hospital. Then I thought I’d get on with my life. But the nightmares…”
He turned then, and Ciara saw the bleak look in his eyes.
“The nightmares come, like the bomb, when I least expect them,” he said. “And then I have to go through it all again. The blood. The pain. The…loss.”
“Oh, Jace.” Ciara was on her feet and hurrying to his side without a thought as to what she could say or do. But she was so overcome with sorrow, all she could do was try, however awkwardly, to comfort him.
She touched a hand to his. “I’ve never lost anyone. At least not anyone who mattered. But I can imagine how horrible this is for you.”
“I thought maybe a change of scenery would help.” He tried to ignore the heat, where her hand was touching his. It seemed a betrayal of Ireina’s memory, to react to another while speaking of her. But the warmth of a human touch was seeping through the cold. And surprisingly, having someone to talk to helped, no matter how painful the words. “I was wrong. Change didn’t help. There’s no escaping it. The memories followed me. And they’re just as strong here as they ever were.”
“You need to give yourself time, Jace.”
He gave an anguished sound that could have been a laugh or a sneer. “It’s been almost a year. And I can’t seem to move beyond it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How much more time should it take?”
“I don’t know.” She twisted her hands together, wishing she could offer something more reassuring, but not knowing how. “I just think a year is such a short time to get over something that hideous.”
When he turned away, she continued standing behind him. “I wish— I wish you could have the cabin to yourself, so that you’d have the solitude you need to heal.” She touched his shoulder, felt him flinch at the touch. “I’m really sorry to intrude on your grief, Jace. My own problems don’t seem so urgent, now that I’ve heard yours. And I promise you, as soon as the roads are cleared, I’ll leave you alone.”
He closed his hand over hers and squeezed, the only sign that he heard and understood. As she started to pull away he muttered, “Don’t go.”
She paused, uncertain as to whether she misunderstood. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You’re not. I’d—rather not be alone right now.”
She drew in a long, deep breath. “All right.” She crossed the room and picked up the bottle, then walked over and topped off his glass. “Why don’t you sit by the fire and talk to me.”
“What would you like to hear?”
About Ireina, she thought. How you met. When you knew it was more than friendship. How long you were together. But aloud she merely said, “Why don’t you tell me about the different countries you’ve been to.”
He passed a hand over his eyes and leaned back, struggling to pull himself back from the darkness. “I haven’t kept count. My home base has been Bosnia, but I’d have to say I’ve been in every country in Europe.” He managed a weak laugh. “And that’s no small feat, considering that some of them are so new, they haven’t even had time to change their name or their currency.”
She was relieved to see him smile, no matter how strained. “How do you communicate? Do you speak their language?”
“Not all of them. But most people can speak a little English. And I can make myself understood in Russian, Polish, French.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. It’s not a big deal. I’m sure behind my back they’re laughing at the American who can’t manage more than a few phrases.”
“Such modesty.” She grinned. “Didn’t you ever get homesick?”
He shrugged. “I was home. Wherever I went, that was my home.”
Ciara shook her head. “It’s just so hard for me to imagine anyone feeling at home all over the world. The times I’ve been on location to shoot a film I’ve hated it. Once I was gone for more than two months. I was so glad to get back to my own house, I wouldn’t leave it for weeks afterward.”
“Well, maybe if you had to survive under primitive conditions, your reaction was understandable. How primitive was it? Where was the film shot?”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, that’s pretty primitive,” he deadpanned.
“Well, my villa had only one pool. And the room service was really slow.”
They both burst into healing peals of laughter. Jace leaned back, all the tension seeping away
. He’d needed this. Ciara was so easy to talk to, to laugh with, to be with.
“But really, Jace. Didn’t you miss hot dogs at the ballpark? Parades on the Fourth of July?”
“Yeah.” He looked over at her, surprised that her question roused such feelings in him. “That’s exactly it. I’d be doing fine, really enjoying my life. But sometimes, when a friend would send me photos of his wife and new baby by the pool, or his kids on swings in the park, I’d find myself wondering if I was missing out on something.” He set his drink on the table and leaned toward her, his face animated, his eyes alive again. “I’d lie awake at night and wonder if what I was doing made any difference. Would anyone remember the guy who went off to Europe to cover the news?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course they—”
He held up a hand. “But I wasn’t building anything solid. I had no one who cared if I lived or died. Nobody who would be really shattered if I left. I find myself thinking that the really smart guys are the ones who find that one special person to love, and then spend the rest of their lives loving her, living with her, creating a family together. And then one day their children grow up to do the same thing. And their children. The cycle of love repeats itself, over and over. And they create this history together. A history that continues through the generations. You see? I report on the history, but I’m not making any. Because I’ve chosen to hold myself apart, and not look for someone who wants to create a history with me.”
“Considering all the messes people make of their lives, yours is probably the wisest course. Think about all those who make the wrong choices, and marry someone who doesn’t want what they want. What happens to their history?”
He shook his head. “They have to absorb the pain and keep on searching. Because love—true love—is what everyone really wants in this life. And all the rest is just window dressing.”
Ciara turned to stare into the fire. “My mother is still fairly young. But she seems resigned to spending the rest of her life alone.”
“But you see? She isn’t alone. She has you and your brothers. So even if her marriage was less than satisfying, it probably gave her what she most wanted in this life. The love and respect of her children. That’s her history.”
Ciara nodded as the truth dawned. “I never really thought about it before. But you’re right. She’s alone, but never lonely. Her life is so full, with my brothers all around her. And though she misses me, we talk often on the phone. And she cuts out every article she can find about me, and pastes them in a scrapbook. She says it keeps me close. My brothers and I are all that matter to her. And if my brother and his wife should have a baby—oh…” Ciara pressed her hands together as if in prayer. “She’d be the most devoted grandmother in the world.” Relaxed and suddenly wide-awake, she stood. “I’m going to pop some popcorn. Want some?”
“Sounds good.” He capped the bottle. “I’ll make some coffee. I’ve had enough brandy.”
While she poured the popcorn into a covered pan, Jace reached over her head to set the bottle in the cupboard. She felt his body brush hers, and struggled not to react.
He filled the kettle, then set it aside. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Hollywood.” His voice was so near, she could feel his breath tickle the back of her neck. “About this thing you wear to bed. I didn’t figure you for the football jersey type. Somehow I expected to see you wearing some frilly thing cut down to here and up to—” he almost patted her backside before he caught himself “—here.”
She turned, and their faces were barely an inch apart. “I’ll remember that the next time I find myself trapped in a snowstorm. I’ll be sure to pack something frilly and low-cut, in case I find myself sharing a cabin with a sex-starved reporter.”
“Sex starved? Yeah, that about sums it up.” He grinned and caught the banded neckline of her nightshirt between his thumb and finger. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you. About the circumstances, or the nightclothes. I can’t remember when I’ve ever seen anybody look so good in a Dallas Cowboys uniform. You fill it out nicely.”
“Thanks. You don’t do such a bad job of filling out those jeans either.”
Though they were both grinning, she was uncomfortably aware of naked chest mere inches away. She could feel the warmth of his body burning through the thin fabric of her nightshirt.
She knew, without a doubt, that he wanted to kiss her. The truth was, she wanted him to. Desperately. But she wasn’t prepared to risk it again. Something happened to her whenever Jace touched her. Right now, his fingers at her neck had her heart pounding. She knew he was affected, too. She could see the little pulse working in his jaw. Could actually see the narrowing of his eyes as they focused on her mouth.
It would be so easy to finish what they’d started earlier. All she’d have to do was move a little closer. Offer him what he wanted. A touch. A kiss. But now, somehow, it was different for both of them. There was more involved. After what he’d told her, she knew his vulnerabilities. And he knew hers. One of them had to be strong enough and smart enough to do the sensible thing. And right now, she figured it was up to her—
“The popcorn will be ready in a few minutes.” She pushed past him and headed toward the fire.
Jace stood where he was, watching the way the jersey clung to her curves as she set the covered pan over the coals. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. He wanted her. And the more she ducked and dodged, the more determined he felt.
Picking up the kettle, he made his way to the fire, where he added freshly ground coffee. Then he crossed to the sofa and sat, watching as Ciara gently shook the pan. It brought back a pleasant, half-forgotten memory from his childhood: the smells of corn popping and coffee simmering.
When it was ready, Ciara poured the popcorn into a bowl, then lifted the kettle from the coals and filled two cups with steaming coffee.
“Want to take a chance on another gin game, Hollywood?”
She glanced over, grinning. “You’re a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”
“I just want the opportunity to win my money back.”
“The first rule of gambling is—” she handed him a cup, and sat beside him on the sofa “—never chase your losses.”
“And how would you know that?”
“I played a gambler in one of my films.”
He popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Yeah, I guess that would make you an expert.”
She punched his arm and was aware again of the rock-hard muscles. “We filmed it on location in Vegas. I got a chance to see the business of gambling firsthand. The good gamblers accept their losses and move on.”
“Sure. To the next game of chance.” He took another handful of popcorn. “I remember that film. A Toss of the Dice. You were a gorgeous redhead.”
She nodded and seemed pleased that he’d seen it.
He surprised her by touching her hair. “I like you better as a blonde.”
She felt a flutter of nerves, and steeled herself against his touch. “Thanks. In my next film I’ll be a blonde.”
“Is it a good movie?” He picked up his cup and sipped.
She shrugged. “The best thing I can say about it is that it’s my last in the contract. Then I’ll be free.”
“Free to do what?”
“I haven’t decided yet. That’s one of the reasons I came up here this weekend. My agent is pressuring me to sign another three-picture deal with the studio. But there are other things I want to try.”
“What things?”
She looked down at her hands. Her voice lowered. “Things that don’t require acting. It’s such a demanding and demeaning business. I’ve watched so many friends lose their identities. They want the fame so badly, they’ll do anything to please their studio, their director, their agent. They’ll undergo plastic surgery, change their faces or their bodies until they’re unrecognizable. They’ll take sleazy parts in movies with half-baked scripts. And they’re terrified of
getting older. Of losing the best scripts to younger actors.”
“What about you?” Jace watched as she frowned.
“I can’t help getting older. I may only be twenty-seven, but I’ve already seen my body change. I’m sick of shedding my clothes in pictures. But those are the only scripts I’m given.” She turned toward him, eyes flashing. “I’m not stupid, Jace. I know what the studios want from me. But I’m capable of so much more. I don’t want to act forever. At least not in these kinds of films. I’d rather have some control. I’d like to write. And maybe direct.”
“You want to write a screenplay?”
“I already have. I’ve been working on it for more than a year. It’s good. Really good. And if I can interest the right producer, and get a director who has the same vision, it would be a wonderful film.”
“With you in the starring role.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t write it for myself. I don’t think the audience would accept me in the role. But if I could get this project completed, the studios would have to take me seriously as a screenwriter.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to remind her that she had as much chance of selling her idea to a studio as pigs had of flying. But he could see the fire in her eyes, and was reminded of the scared girl who had left home so she could take care of her mother and brothers. There was just something about her that made him believe she could do anything she set her mind to.
“You know something, Hollywood? I think those studios better watch themselves.” He picked up the deck of cards and started shuffling. “You’ve been swimming with the sharks long enough that you’ve developed some sharp teeth of your own.”
Her smile grew. “You think so?”
“Yeah. Now come on. I need to rack up five hundred and seventy-eight points before I turn in.”
She rubbed her hands together and picked up the cards he dealt her. As she drew the first card, Ciara thought about the way Jace had looked tonight when she’d first come out of her room. Angry. Bitter. Destroyed. Overcome with memories almost too painful to bear. Listening to him, she’d realized that her own problems were minor in comparison.
