by Jane Porter
I think of Max, who had to control me. I think of the show’s executive producers, who want to minimize me by adding Shelby as my co-star. I think of Trevor, who played me while he was sleeping with Kiki.
And then I think of Michael, who watches me with that glint in his eye and that sexy crooked smile. I can’t imagine Michael ever telling me to be good, be quiet, be silent, be grateful. He’d tell me what Keith used to tell me: Go big or go home.
My fingers caress the soft orange Angel Sanchez gown and then the primal crimson Oscar de la Renta.
I’m wearing red.
Chapter Eleven
Eight a.m. Saturday morning, the day before the Golden Globes, Christie calls to invite me to go skiing with her family. They’re heading to Snow Summit at Big Bear, and they’ll meet me where Interstate 10 East intercepts Highway 38. We’ve done this before, where I’ll park in a lot on Orange Street and then jump in their massive luxury Range Rover and Christie’s husband will drive us the rest of the way. I’m not very confident driving in snow and ice, although Christie said conditions are good today.
Skiing should be the last thing on my mind. I should be working on story ideas and then primping properly for the awards by getting a spray tan, a blowout, a manicure and pedicure. But all I’ve done for the past seven years is primp and work, and doing something fun with Christie is hugely appealing.
“I’d love to,” I tell her. I haven’t skied yet this year, but I know where all my equipment is. I keep it together in the garage, the skis and poles in the cabinet and my boots and clothes in a big Roxy duffel bag. “What time did you want to meet?”
“Soon. We’re almost ready to leave.” She hesitates. “But you need to know that Simon’s meeting Michael on the slopes. Michael has a cabin at Big Bear and he’s already up there. Is that going to be a problem for you?”
My pulse does a little jump at the mention of Michael, something I find infinitely annoying. I don’t want to like him. I have no interest in the man. There’s no reason for me to react like a girl in high school.
“It’s not a problem,” I answer calmly, glancing at my watch. “And if I leave in the next half hour, I could meet you at the Dunkin’ Donuts around nine-thirty and we’d be on the slopes by eleven.”
“Perfect. See you there. Call me if you hit traffic.”
It’s a clear, sunny day and no traffic since it’s Saturday and all the college football games have ended for another year. I like driving on days like today and with my music loud— no sad songs today, just good driving music, my favorite oldie mix on my iPod of Supertramp, Abba, and Heart. It’s not the kind of music that you want to be caught listening to in public, but in the privacy of my own car I sing as loud as I can and it feels so good.
I feel good.
Who knows what will happen at work, but I don’t have to think about work right now. For once I’m going to give it all up, surrender to play. I’m going to hang out with Christie. Ski. And check out Michael’s action on the slopes.
Wonder if he’s any good. Hope he’s not one of those men who have all the great gear but can’t ski for anything.
The edges of my mouth lift.
I hit Redlands in just under an hour, giving me time to stop at the Starbucks next door to use the restroom and order a latte to go.
My cell rings and it’s Christie outside, saying they’ve arrived. I dash out to meet them, and as Christie hugs me, Simon takes the gear from my car and stows it in his. I climb into their SUV, hug each of the girls, and take my seat in the very back— and we’re off, with a very motivated Simon at the wheel.
The girls are all enrolled in ski school, and while Christie takes them to their classes, I slip on my boots and carry my skis to the base of East Mountain Xpress, the quad chairlift, where I’m supposed to meet Christie and Simon once the girls are all checked in. Christie arrives ten minutes later, tells me that Simon’s already hooked up with Michael and they’ve headed to the freestyle park, Westridge.
With two hours before the kids are returned to us, we take the East Mountain Xpress and spend forty-five minutes enjoying a surprisingly uncrowded run down Miracle Mile. Christie’s boot is bugging her, though, and back at the base, she begs off the next run to see if she can’t figure out why she’s getting a blister. I’d like to get in another run before the kids join us and am heading for the chairlifts for Log Chute when I spot Michael all dressed in black ahead of me.
I slide into line behind him and poke him in the butt with the tip of my pole.
His head turns sharply, and then he spots me. I make a face at him. “Hello, Dr. Evil. How handsome you are in all black.”
His smile is rueful. “A Mike Myers fan?”
“I did like the Austin Powers movies.”
“Then you should know— Dr. Evil wore gray.”
“How do you know that?”
“How can you not?”
I make another face.
His dense black lashes drop. “Are you on your own? I thought you were skiing with Christie.”
“Her boot’s bugging her. I told her I’d take a run and then meet back up with her. Where’s Simon?”
“He’s at the top waiting for me. I had a call regarding one of my patients.”
“So you do actually work?” I tease.
“Just a little bit.”
We end up riding the chairlift to the summit and part ways at the top, as Michael likes the triple black diamond runs and I’m more comfortable on the intermediate slopes. As he heads off, I take one of the cat tracks past View Haus for Miracle Mile, which is my favorite run here at Snow Summit. I’m enjoying myself, executing smooth, flawless turns and feeling very skilled, when I make a little turn and realize I’ve made the wrong turn.
I’m no longer on Miracle. I think I’m on Dicky’s, Dicky’s being one of the advanced terrains, and I hit a rough icy patch and go sailing over a mogul and careen wildly toward the bowl. I’m beginning to panic as I slip and slide faster and faster.
I’m scared. This out-of-control feeling is something I don’t ever want to feel. It’s turbulence when you fly. It’s a car hurtling too fast around a tight corner. It’s danger and imminent disaster.
And I don’t like disaster.
“You okay, Tia?” It’s Michael back at my elbow, and I dig my blades into the mountain as hard as I can to come to a complete stop.
I turn to Michael, terrified and yet relieved. “I can’t do this,” I squeak. “I don’t have enough control— ”
“I’ve been watching you. You’re doing great.”
“I keep falling.”
“You’ve only fallen once. And you did great over that last mogul. You were flying.”
“That was a mistake! I didn’t even see it until it was too late.”
He grins. He knows it was. “I’ll ski you down.”
“Please.”
Michael skis in a graceful zigzag down the mountain, and I focus on his back and the smooth pattern of his skis as they cut through the snow. Little by little, I relax and lean into the mountain when he does and crouch lower in my skis on turns, and the tension and fear ease. We reach the bottom and he’s waiting for me, goggles off, a light in his dark blue eyes. “You did it.”
“Thank you. That was not fun.”
“You’re a good skier, Tiana. You just need more confidence.”
I grimace, lift a hand off my pole, and show him how it’s trembling. “You think?”
“Let’s get you a drink. You’ve earned it.”
I don’t argue.
We leave our skis and poles outside and clomp upstairs to the bar, where we find two seats at the crowded wood counter.
Before I place an order, the twenty-something bartender looks at me and then does a swift double take. “You Tiana Tomlinson?”
I nod and the young bartender whistles. “You’re even hotter in real life. Drink’s on me.” And with a wink he turns to make a special cocktail.
Michael looks at me. “He doesn�
��t even know I’m here.”
I laugh a real laugh. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
I grin. “Okay, I’m not.”
“So, Roxy skis? I didn’t know they even made skis.”
“That’s because you’re one of those K2 Apache Outlaw kind of guys. All performance and image.”
“They’re great skis, and performance matters.”
The bartender returns and with a flourish places a steaming coffee cup in front of me that’s topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. “A Summit Xpress. Chambord, vodka, Godiva liqueur, and espresso. Total liquid courage.”
He waits for me to try it.
I lift the cup, take a tiny sip, and wham! the liquor-soaked espresso hits me. It’s strong. And sweet. And strong. “Wow.”
The bartender, a fairly hot young guy, leans on the counter and smiles into my eyes. “Good, huh?”
“I think I’ll try one of those, too, but without the sprinkles,” Michael says. Then he turns to me and gives me a look that I don’t know how to decipher. “I’m dying to ask you questions I have no business asking.”
I arch a brow. “And you haven’t even had a drink yet.” I push my cup with the tips of my fingers. “This is strong, too.”
“How strong?”
“If I have a couple of these, I might actually like you.”
His cup arrives with its tower of whipped cream, and Michael knocks off half the whipped cream before taking a sip. He whistles. “That’s a stiff girlie drink.”
“Eyes watering?”
“No, but I’ve got more hair on my chest already.”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose.
He laughs, lifts his glass mug, and clinks it against mine. “It’s good to see you, Ms. America. How are you feeling now?”
I’m about a quarter of the way through my cocktail and beginning to feel nice and relaxed. “Good.”
Laughter lurks in his dark blue eyes. “You’re a lightweight, aren’t you?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” I rather like the rush of heat in my stomach and the warm, lazy weight in my limbs. It’s been a long time since I felt lazy and sexy, yet sitting here with Michael, I feel downright dangerous in a good way.
“Were you in love with him?” Michael asks bluntly.
“Who?”
“Trevor.”
“No.”
“How long were you together?”
“Six months.”
“That’s some serious time.”
“If you’re in high school.”
He laughs. I drink. And then drink again. I’m definitely feeling more relaxed now. “The thing is,” I add, “it was all long distance. We didn’t really see each other that much. We didn’t have that much in common.”
Two seats open up by the fireplace, and Michael gestures for me to snag them while he puts his credit card on the counter for the bartender. The chairs are big and sturdy, and I curl my legs up under me, the cup clasped in my hands to keep them warm. When Michael joins me, he stretches his legs out with a sigh. He’s like Johnny Cash, the man in black in his black North Face ski pants, shirt, and jacket, except he has blue eyes, not brown.
In the glow of the firelight, he looks hard and strong and alive, and I watch his face as he smiles at me. He’s confident and male and primal, and I feel my pulse quicken in response. He’s always been handsome, but I’ve never felt this intense physical attraction before.
I tell myself it’s the fire and the drink, but as I cross my legs, I’m aware of how my heart beats and my hands shake. I’m totally turned on right now, which makes no sense at all since we’ve never gotten along and I’ve spent years hating the sight of him.
“So why don’t we like each other again?” I ask, sipping from my cup.
He looks amused. “I like you. You don’t like me.”
“And why is that again?”
“I’m shallow, superficial, greedy, materialistic…” He pauses, thinks. “I think those are the big four.”
Heat rushes through me. Heat and desire and more. I’d like his hands on me, on my face, on my body, in my hair. “So if I’ve disliked you so much, why don’t you dislike me more?”
Grooves bracket his mouth. “I knew it was just a matter of time before you realized that you used anger and disdain to mask your true feelings.”
I’m feeling so very pleasantly tingly, and I lean toward him. “My true feelings?”
His lashes drop, partially concealing the blue sheen of his eyes. “You like me.” He leans forward so that we’re just a foot apart. “And you want me.”
My gaze meets his and holds. There’s more than laughter in his eyes. There’s heat. Fire. A shiver of feeling races down my back, and my fingers curl into fists as I respond to this crazy dizzying chemistry. “I’d never want you, Doc.” Yet my voice is as warm and husky as whiskey, summer, and sin.
The corner of his mouth lifts and his lashes lift. His eyes burn. He wants me.
In part of my mind, I know Trevor never once looked at me like this. Trevor never once made my brain and body ache at the same time. And my body does ache. My lower belly is tight and my skin tingles and every sense is so heightened that I feel a little mad.
But how many women has he looked at this way? How many women does he do this to?
He reaches out, touches the curve of my cheek with his thumb. “You’re very beautiful and very delusional.”
A shiver dances down my spine at his touch. The lines come to him so easily, don’t they? “You’re delusional if you think I’m enjoying this,” I say, voice suddenly very husky.
“Maybe I am. But I’ve never seen you smile this much before. I like you like this.”
I don’t know if it’s his words, the tone of his voice, or his expression, but I feel a yearning for this whole life I haven’t yet lived. A life of love and connection and emotion. A life where I’m cherished. Wanted.
Impulsively, I lean forward and kiss him.
His lips are cool. His breath is warm. I put my hand against his jaw and feel the bone and shape of his face. It’s a strong jaw, rough with stubble, and he feels like a man. A man who would know how to love me properly. And even if it’s all misleading, for a moment I cave, giving in to the pleasure.
The kiss deepens, and emotion and sensation rock me hard. I haven’t felt anything like this in forever.
I drop my hand to his shirt and hold tight. I have to hold tight. I might never feel like this again.
And then from far away, I hear Christie’s voice. Yet I don’t pull away. It’s Michael who lifts his head, ending the kiss.
I look at him mutely. What the hell did I just do?
“Does this mean you like each other?” Christie asks, smiling smugly as she stands in front of us, hand on her hip.
I blush, mortified. Michael laughs.
“You were supposed to meet us for lunch,” she reminds me. “Everybody’s waiting.”
“Right.”
I get to my feet, legs tingling and boots heavy. Michael’s talking easily to Christie, but I can’t look at either of them. I feel like a kid caught making out under the bleachers.
What is his secret? How does he get me to kiss him? God, he’s dangerous.
While they talk I gather my jacket, goggles, and gloves and follow them to the cafeteria, where the rest of Christie’s family is waiting, although I’m far from steady on my feet. I’d like to think my dizziness is due to one potent cocktail, but my gut tells me it’s Michael’s kiss.
Lunch is loud and chaotic, which suits me just fine, as Melissa’s tears and Melanie’s hurt feelings keep the conversation bouncing all over the place.
I notice Christie looking at me every now and then, trying to figure out what the hell she saw in the bar.
I’d like to know what the hell happened.
I’ve never done that. Not in years. Don’t know why I did that today. Just threw myself at him. So wrong. So not me.
I tune back in to the conversation
at the mention of Africa. Simon’s asking Michael when he’s leaving for his Rx Smile mission in Zambia.
“Less than two weeks,” Michael answers.
“How long will you be gone this time?” Christie asks. “Your last mission was nearly a month.”
“Ten to fourteen days. The return date’s not set, as I might be heading to Cairo to speak at a medical conference. I’m very much looking forward to being back in Africa.”
My interest is piqued. “I didn’t know you volunteered with Rx Smile.”
“That’s how I met Simon,” Michael answers. “He was part of the first mission to La Paz, and that was what? Six or seven years ago?”
“Eight.” Christie nods at Melanie. “I was pregnant with that one and worried I’d go into labor while you were gone.”
“I’ve been thinking about going to Africa, too. There’s a woman in Kenya I’d love to interview. She’d be a wonderful story. I’ve sent an e-mail to her this past week trying to get in touch.”
Michael’s lips curve. “You should come to Zambia. Do a story on Rx Smile. I guarantee you’d be amazed, and touched.”
“Participating in Rx Smile in Bolivia was one of the best things I ever did,” Simon concurs, “but also the hardest. There you are, ready to help, and then you realize you’re not going to be able to help everyone. I found that frustrating. I was there. I wanted to do even more.”
I feel a surge of adrenaline even before Christie turns to me. “You should go to Zambia, Tia. Here’s your opportunity. You said you’ve taken the month of January off. Go when Michael’s there. He’ll introduce you around. Make sure you get the story you need.”
“It’s an interesting idea,” I say, my mind spinning. I’d love to do it. I’d absolutely love to go. Finally, the chance to travel somewhere, see something I haven’t seen, create something I’ve never done. “Who would I contact? What are the costs? Would they even let me film the mission?”
