Three Marie Ferrarella Romances Box Set One

by Marie Ferrarella

  “But where does he go?” Shane asked Scottie.

  He was evasive. “Nick just . . . goes, that’s all,” he told her, looking about, apparently in search of a direction that would take him away from Shane. They were standing near the set where a scene was being pulled together.

  Shane shook her head. “Uh-uh. These disappearances of his are prearranged. Why are the only scenes that don’t include him shot on Wednesday afternoons?”

  “Coincidence?” Scottie suggested hopefully.

  “Scottie, tell me,” she implored. In the face of what had happened on the camping trip, Shane had all but forgotten how her curiosity had been aroused last Wednesday. Now that the incident had repeated itself, she was more intrigued than ever.

  Scottie looked at her, his expression for once devoid of high enthusiasm. She could almost see him arguing with himself.

  “Well, he likes you,” he said aloud. The words brought a certain rush to her blood. “Maybe it’s all right.”

  “Of course it’s all right,” Shane said encouragingly, placing her hand on his shoulder in an attempt at camaraderie.

  “There’s this reservation,” Scottie began, his voice lowering slightly.

  When he stopped for a moment, Shane asked, “At a restaurant?”

  “No, it’s not that kind of reservation,” he said, fumbling with a buttonhole on the cardigan he was wearing. “It’s an Indian reservation.”

  Why would he be keeping visits to a reservation a secret, unless there was something more than tourism involved? She remembered Nick’s expression when he talked about Red Wing. Did it have something to do with his friend? Aloud, she asked, “Where is this reservation?”

  “It’s called Cherry Creek Reservation. Don’t ask me any more. I don’t think I should even be telling you this much,” Scottie said, obviously having second thoughts about it.

  “You never said a word,” she told him. “Just point me to an available car and a map.”

  That he did do for her, and Shane sank against the striped, cloth seat of the Mustang he arranged for her to use, staring at the multi-colors of the map she had fished out of the glove compartment. Finally, she located the reservation. It appeared to be only a few miles from where they were shooting. How oddly convenient, she thought, refolding the map. Several attempts later she tossed the map over her shoulder onto the backseat. It had more creases in it than it had had to begin with. Map folding had always been something that baffled her.

  Shane had never seen a real reservation, so she had no idea what to expect. It was a small area, almost like a city project, she thought as she approached it, except that there were a lot more open spaces. She saw several trailers and buildings along the way and decided that her best course of action would be to make her way to an official-looking, wood-framed building that loomed at the end of the street. Maybe someone there had seen Nick.

  She found an office marked “Administration” on the first floor and knocked. A soft voice told her to come in. Shane stepped inside the small room. The floorboard creaked loudly and the sound of her clicking high heels bounced back and forth between the barren walls. The pretty, olive-skinned woman behind the desk looked up from her paper work and waited for Shane to speak.

  Shane offered the woman what she hoped was her most beguiling smile. “Hi,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m Shane McCallister, from Rendezvous magazine. Nick Rutledge told me to meet him here, but he forgot to tell me just where. I wonder if you could help me.”

  The woman was silent for a minute, as if she were weighing Shane’s statement. “He’s right down the hall,” she said finally, rising. “I’ll show you the way to the classroom.”

  Classroom? As Alice said to the White Rabbit, Shane thought, this is getting curiouser and curiouser. Quietly, Shane followed the tall young woman down the poorly lit hallway.

  “He arrived a little late today,” the woman told Shane, “so I’m afraid you’ve a bit of a wait. But you can sit in the back, if there’s any room left, of course.” She smiled, a touch of pride becoming evident. “It’s become our most popular class since Nick started teaching it. We were afraid that he’d have to stop when his new picture began. But somehow, he managed to have the location moved to Kiowa. He’s done a great deal for our young people. Well, here it is,” she concluded. They came to a stop before the last door, which she opened for Shane. Quietly, the woman faded back into the hallway.

  Shane did not have time to think over anything the woman had said to her—she was too busy trying not to step on anyone. The floor was literally covered with students, all sitting cross-legged on the creaky, unpolished wood. Shane stood stock still near where she had entered. There was no place else to go. Every available seat was taken, and students were crammed against one another. No one even looked in her direction or acknowledged her entrance. They kept their eyes front on the teacher in rapt attention. Only the “teacher” looked surprised. But the look quickly disappeared from Nick’s face, and his lecture did not skip a beat.

  As Shane listened, she realized that Nick was actually teaching an acting class. The man was a source of endless surprise to her. This was the last thing she had pictured a popular actor doing in his spare time. She watched in admiration as he took two apparently very shy students and had them read a scene from Romeo and Juliet, working with them until they overcame their fears and began to open up to the meaning of the words. He had a gift.

  “You amaze me,” Shane confessed after the last student had reluctantly left. It had taken half an hour after the class was over to clear the room of eager teenagers, who had questions of all sorts for Nick. “I came here fully expecting to find a chink in your armor and I turn up a solid-gold breastplate instead.” She crossed her arms before her as she watched Nick erase the lesson from the board. “Aside from throwing unsuspecting women into pools, I think your only other bad habit is that you snore.”

  Nick put down the eraser and turned to look at her, cocking his head. “I snore?” he asked in surprise.

  She held her thumb and forefinger up, parted slightly. “Just a little.”

  He shook his head, coming around the desk. “Can’t be. No one in my family ever snored. We’re just going to have to have you over a few more times to run a controlled test on your observation,” he said, putting his arms around her and nuzzling her neck. Playfully, he kissed the silken chestnut tresses against her cheek. “How about tonight?” he proposed.

  She tried to resist the temptation, her mind warning her against the folly of deeper emotional involvement. “Aren’t you even curious about how I got here?”

  “I figure you twisted Scottie’s arm, right?” he asked, letting her go. He went back to gathering up the handful of notes he had used that afternoon.

  “I’m sworn to secrecy,” she said, solemnly raising her right hand. “Speaking of which, why are you making such a big secret out of this? I think it’s wonderful.”

  “I’m not doing it to be wonderful,” he told her flatly. “I’m doing it because I want to contribute something and I don’t want people flocking in just to ogle me. I’ll meet my fans elsewhere.” He shoved his notes in his back pocket and put a guiding hand on Shane’s shoulder. They headed for the hallway.

  They encountered the tall Native American woman Shane had met in the office. Nick shook his head. “Anne, you should have sent her back with her tail between her legs.”

  The woman was slightly taken aback. “Weren’t you expecting her?” she asked, looking at Shane.

  “I lied to her,” Shane explained before Nick said anything. “I told her I was to meet you here.”

  “I suppose she pumped you about the contributions as well,” Nick said to Anne.

  “What contributions?” Shane asked, her eyes alert.

  “Nothing to concern yourself with,” Nick said quickly, obviously realizing his mistake. But Shane wouldn’t be put off. She turned to Anne, a question shining in her eyes.

  “Nick, you are being too mod
est,” Anne said. “There is nothing wrong with letting people know how generous you are.” She turned toward Shane. “If it weren’t for Nick, there would be no school. It’s his money that built it and his money that helps feed these kids during the year.”

  Nick waved his hand to stop her. “I don’t want that plastered all over a national magazine,” he insisted.

  Shane realized that beneath the flamboyant romantic swashbuckler there existed a very private person, who did not want any acclaim for his good deeds. But this time, she thought he was wrong. Noble but wrong. “If I do ‘plaster’ it all over the magazine, I guarantee you that the reservation will have contributions coming in from all over the country. Don’t you see, Nick?” Shane asked, impatient that it wasn’t as clear to him as it was to her. Didn’t he realize the power he possessed? “Anything you’re interested in, hordes of women are going to want to get involved in as well. It’ll make them feel closer to you.”

  He looked at Anne. “What do you think?”

  Anne shrugged her thin shoulders. “Sounds good to me, although I’m not too sure how the elders will feel about charity.”

  Shane shook her head. “It won’t be charity,” she insisted. “You’re giving them something back in return. You’re letting people experience that glow of satisfaction over doing something good and decent, helping out their fellow man. Atoning for the Little Big Horn all over again.”

  “That was the Sioux,” Nick corrected.

  “Oh, dear. So it was. Sorry, but I do think my point is valid.”

  Nick hugged her close, laughing. “Lady, you’re something else.” She loved the feel of being pressed against him. It awakened an intimate warmth within her.

  “What do you say, Anne?” Nick asked. “Will you talk to the elders and ask their permission?”

  The woman nodded, parting company with them at the outer door of the building. “I’ll have word for you by next week,” she promised.

  They waved good-bye and walked toward the car Shane had borrowed.

  “What made you start here?”

  “After my hitch in the Army was over, I came back here to Red Wing’s family. Anne was his wife,” Nick explained. “I wanted to tell her everything I could remember about his last few months. So I stayed for a while. And I began to see what a crying need these people have. The government takes away their self-respect, and to some extent the outside world still won’t accept them. They’re almost forced to stay here, taking the stipend that the government doles out. I wanted to do something about it. When my big break came, I was in a position to start sending money back to Anne.”

  They came to a halt at the car. “How close are you and Anne?” Shane watched his eyes for an answer.

  “We’ve been friends for a very long time,” he said. “Does that answer your question?”

  “Partially. Look,” she said briskly, “I had no right asking that—“

  His fingertips brushed against the hollow of her throat as he tilted her head up toward his. The kiss that followed was powerful, yet very tender.

  “Does that answer the rest of it?”

  “Yes,” she replied in a small, breathless voice.

  “Now that that’s settled, let’s go to my place. You can follow in your car,” he said, beginning to head toward his own.

  But Shane shook her head. “You’ve got lines to memorize,” she reminded him.

  “I have a theory to disprove, remember?” he said. “I don’t snore!”

  “We can work on that later,” she replied, wishing she weren’t saying it at all. “I have to start working on my article.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather work on the real thing instead?” he offered, spreading his hands wide. “You can bring your pad and take notes this time,” he said with a wink.

  “Uh-uh. I can’t think around you,” she retorted, opening her car door. “I’ll see you in the morning.” She slid into her seat.

  “Suit yourself,” he said, and walked away.

  She watched his back, sadness filling every part of her.

  Chapter Eight

  The next day marked the beginning of October. It was also the beginning of one of the biggest storms on record in the region. Rain lashed down in sheets, ruining plans to complete outdoor shooting begun the day before.

  As Shane sat quietly in the corner, watching, she saw the director’s temper go from bad to worse. Filming was not going very well at all. The humidity seemed to seep into everything. At one point, when Bowman pointed to the man in charge of the Nagra sound machine, uttering the commands “Sound” and “Speed,” he was rewarded with a piercing wail.

  “I don’t want that kind of sound!” Bowman howled, holding his head.

  Take after take was ruined by tempers, tensions, and the screech of the sound machine, which had become as temperamental as several of the actors.

  The weather had the opposite effect on Nick.

  “Why are you grinning?” Shane asked as he came over to her. Behind him. Bowman was threatening the sound man with physical harm unless something was done about the machine.

  “The rain means snow on the mountains,” he told Shane, sitting down in the chair next to her. “Good skiing weather.”

  “Let me guess,” Shane said as if bracing herself. “You ski.”

  “And you don’t,” he concluded. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

  Shane sighed. “Being around you is like being in training for the Olympics.”

  Nick laughed, then motioned for Bowman to come over and join them. The director looked ready to walk off the set—permanently. “Hey, John, I have an idea. Why don’t we get a bunch of people together and go up to Snowmass-at-Aspen after filming on Friday? Are you game for a skiing weekend?”

  Bowman shrugged his pointy shoulders, dropping an ash on his white-ribbed turtleneck sweater. He flicked it away impatiently. “Sure, why not? If I’m lucky, half the cast will break legs and I can replace all of you with real actors.”

  “That’s what I like about you, John,” Nick said. “You’re an old softie.”

  “I must be soft in the head to take this kind of abuse year in and year out.” A shrill squawk filled the air, threatening to shatter glass. “Dammit, fix that thing, Johnson, before we all go deaf!” he thundered, marching back to the harassed sound man.

  Friday’s rains were worse, and brought disaster with them.

  “Who the hell left the equipment storeroom door open?” Bowman demanded of the crew. They were all gathered before him, each trying, Shane observed, to avoid the angry man’s eyes. The director’s neck was growing redder by the moment as only his voice was heard on the silent set. Bowman’s eyes bore into the group. “We lost three cameras and the Nagra! Now, how do you propose we get this movie finished?” he asked, his voice trembling with rage. “Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take to get replacements? The studio can’t have them here until Tuesday! Tuesday! Do you know what that is in dollars and cents? Probably too high a figure for any of you to count!” He paced about, practically chewing through his cigar. “Imbeciles! Cretins!”

  “What’s done is done, John,” Nick said easily, standing on the sideline. “It’s not going to change matters if you work yourself into cardiac arrest.” It appeared to Shane that everyone turned to Nick in unison, as if hoping that he could placate Bowman.

  “I don’t have heart attacks, Rutledge, I give them!” Bowman bellowed.

  Shane thought she heard someone in the back of the group say, “Amen.”

  “Why don’t we just break early for the weekend?” Nick suggested. “An extended rest might do us all some good. The weather report says sunny skies by this afternoon. And perfect weather for next week.”

  “It’s better be,” Bowman snapped, relighting his cigar.

  “Why? Are you going to sue God if it’s not?”

  Nick laughed, walking over and putting his arm around the older man’s shoulders. Next to Nick, Bowman looked like a gnarled and aged man inste
ad of a frightening tyrant, Shane thought, scribbling the phrase on her pad. “C’mon, John, you’ve been working much too hard. You need a rest too. What do you say I have Scottie pick you up and drive us all to the airport? I’ve already talked to a few of the other people in the crew, and they’re game.”

  “That’s their trouble. They all think this is a game. Not a brain in the lot!” Bowman complained.

  “They’re the best, and you know it,” Nick said. Shane thought his voice sounded a bit more firm than it had a minute ago. She was surprised to see Bowman retreat slightly. “Besides,” Nick continued, beckoning Shane to come closer. “I’m going to teach Shane how to ski. You don’t want to miss that.”

  Bowman cracked one of the first smiles she had seen on his thin lips. Somehow, even his smiles looked foreboding. Shane started having second thoughts about this weekend.

  Her second thoughts plagued her the remainder of the afternoon as she went to the stores surrounding the hotel and hastily purchased some appropriate skiing clothes. This assignment was going to leave her with a broken leg, she told herself as she began to pack. A broken leg as well as a broken heart, if she wasn’t careful. She chewed on her lip as she transferred the newly purchased items from their boxes into her suitcase. The weekend was going to be a mistake. She and Nick would be together, and she knew she had no power to resist him. Each time he touched her, each time he kissed her, she lost a little bit more of her soul to him.

  “Damn it all, McCallister,” she muttered, slamming the lid shut, “don’t you see there’s no future in this? What kind of a romance can thrive with three thousand miles between it? The only one that’s going to be happy is the airline.” She entered her bathroom, pulling out the necessary items to pack. “And how are you going to go on with that brilliant career you’ve outlined for yourself?” she demanded of the face in the mirror, “eating out your heart, knowing that some starlet is probably pouring her body all over Nick while you’re looking for the right adjective to describe some senator’s dim point of view?” She threw down her toothbrush. “If you had any brains at all, you wouldn’t be going this weekend. You’d stay in your room and write your damn article and work at locking Nick Rutledge out of your heart.”