TURN ME ON

by Kristin Hardy

  Frowning at herself, Sabrina began to update her scheduling software with a list of shoots. A roving New York sex club, a lap dance tutor, a hotel for exhibitionists … Home Cinema wouldn't know what had hit it. A lot of babies would be born nine months after the premiere, she thought, a broad smile spreading across her face.

  Two years of being a production manager had made Sabrina an expert in problem-solving, but that didn't mean it was pleasant. Laeticia made the office an oasis of sanity and order; Sabrina felt her absence keenly. The phone rang and Sabrina snatched it up, only to find a telemarketer on the other end. A raise, she thought as she hung up. Laeticia definitely deserved a raise.

  Sabrina made a noise of frustration at the peremptory blat of sound in the reception room. The fax machine had gone silent; it didn't take a genius to put two and two together. With a sigh, Sabrina rose to take care of it. The signed contract for the documentary was coming through and the last thing she needed was to run out of paper in the middle of it.

  She pulled open the doors of the metal cabinet that housed their office supplies. The only box of paper was unopened, which meant digging out Laeticia's box cutter. Bumping her head on an upper shelf, she cursed just as she heard a noise behind her.

  "You ought to be more careful, rushing into things like that. Then again, that always was your problem."

  Sabrina froze. The words vibrated in the silence of the room and shivered into the marrow of her bones. Slowly, she straightened up and turned, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

  Stef Costas leaned against the wall just inside the door to her office. It snatched the breath from her lungs to see him there. A day-old beard darkened his jaw, framing his mouth. How she'd loved that mouth, addictive and enticing, hot and demanding on hers. How she'd loved him, once upon a time.

  Once upon a time … the beginning of all good fairy tales. Theirs had been the fairy story of all time, a magical fantasy of true love.

  Only they hadn't lived happily ever after.

  She concentrated on the memory, searching for composure. "Well, if it isn't the famous Stef Costas." She gave him a leisurely, intentionally insolent survey. It had been eight years since she'd seen him, aside from the nights he haunted her dreams. The years had stripped down his face to the sharp, tight lines of jaw and cheekbone, the black slashes of brow above midnight eyes, a sheaf of ebony hair hanging over his forehead. His was a face that conjured up thoughts of Alexander the Great, or Jason and the Argonauts. He'd grown leaner, tougher-looking and even more handsome, if that were possible. And, judging by the lack of a wedding ring, free of entanglements.

  Stef gave her a mocking stare in return with those black, damn-you-to-the-devil eyes. "And if it isn't the latest Pantolini producer."

  "Producer," she repeated slowly, savoring the taste on her tongue. "I believe that makes me your boss, doesn't it?" She saw a quick flash in his eyes before he banked it back. He still had a temper, that much was clear.

  "The way I understood it, you were short a director. Let's not forget I'm here doing you a favor—boss," he said.

  He also still had that annoying sense of superiority. "I don't need a favor." Her words were brisk, with a note of warning. "What I need is someone who can bring this documentary in on time, within budget and with the look and style I want. As long as we understand each other, we'll do fine."

  His eyes were direct, with, she swore, a hint of enjoyment. "Yes, ma'am. Just one thing—we work with my director of photography."

  "I've already got a cameraman under contract."

  "Pay him off."

  "Perhaps you didn't hear what I just said. We're doing this on budget. My guy stays."

  "No. Gus tells me you've worked with him on docs before, so you know how these things go. It's one hundred percent intuitive, and you better get the shot right the first time, particularly when it's live action. We don't have the time—and I don't have the patience—to break in a new cameraman." He folded his arms across his chest. "I've been working with Kevin for seven years, he knows how I think. I don't work without him."

  She'd dealt with cocky directors before. What was it about Stef that made her want to get in his face and match him attitude for attitude? Maybe it was the calm assurance that he'd get his way, or rather, that his way was the only way. If anything, that aura of unshakable confidence that he'd had in college had deepened and ripened with time. Unfortunately, it only made his dark looks even more appealing, she thought, leaning against the edge of Laeticia's desk.

  After all these years, Stef Costas was still stubborn, infuriating and just this side of a prima donna. He was also, in all likelihood, right about the cameraman. She could hear Gus's voice now: "Make the maximum use of your resources. Let the talent do their jobs." Stef was undeniably talented. She was damned if she was going to give in to him completely during their first disagreement, though. Do what's necessary, sure, but she had another maxim—begin as you mean to go on.

  It was time to set the tone for how this relationship was going to work.

  Unlike when they had been lovers.

  "Wait here," Sabrina said, rising. "I'll have a look at the budget."

  * * *

  Stef watched Sabrina cross into her office, his eyes following the arrogant sway of her hips. She wore tight, low-slung pants of the kind that half of the women in L.A. seemed to have adopted as a uniform over the past few years. Watching Sabrina, he suddenly understood the point. Her clingy burgundy top didn't quite reach her belt line, just revealing the points of a stag's horn tattoo that stretched across her lower back. He remembered that tattoo, remembered when she'd gotten it, the first in her circle to do so. And he remembered being in bed with her, tracing its pattern with his tongue.

  It seemed he could never have enough of her in those days. He'd been addicted, as hooked as any junkie. He remembered how she'd felt against him, sleek and springy, humming with arousal. No matter what differences they'd had outside of the bedroom, inside it they'd clicked.

  If he were honest, curiosity as much as desperation had driven him to agree to Gus's proposal. The memory of Sabrina—her scent, the feel of her skin—had stubbornly remained in his mind. The years took their toll on everyone; he figured it would do him good to see that the bloom had worn off.

  Only now, he could see that it hadn't. One look at those deep-set sherry-brown eyes, that cap of sable curls, and it was clear the bloom had only intensified. Like wine distilled into fine cognac, Sabrina's younger self had deepened into something far more intoxicating. When she'd been nineteen, she could stop traffic; now, he guessed, she could stop hearts.

  Not his, though. Not any more.

  Stef slid down into a chair along the wall and watched her stalk to a filing cabinet and rummage around in a drawer, yanking out a file. She slapped it down on her desk and sat, leaning forward to read it. Practicality had probably driven her to set her desk facing the door, so that she could easily talk to her assistant. It was just coincidence that he was sitting where it also gave him a direct view of her. He wondered if she realized just how plunging the neckline of her top was, revealing the slight cleft of her cleavage.

  Outside, the late summer sun shone from a sky of deadened blue. Inside, the radio played softly, a man singing plaintively about going crazy while he looked into his ex-lover's eyes.

  * * *

  The figures on the sheet in front of her didn't tell Sabrina anything she didn't already know. She'd stashed some extra money here and there to cover the inevitable overruns. If things broke just right, she probably could pay her current cameraman his release fee and still squeak in on budget. But film projects were like unruly children, always running off in unanticipated directions. If Stef Costas wanted his personal cameraman, he was going to have to pay for it himself.

  She was going to enjoy telling him that.

  Sabrina glanced up and saw him sitting in one of the row of cheap office chairs next to the outer door—one elbow propped up on the backs, his legs stretche
d out and crossed at the ankles. He leaned his head back and watched her through slitted eyes. What he was thinking, she couldn't say; she'd never been able to.

  Except, perhaps, in bed.

  She snapped the folder shut to drive the thought from her mind. There was certainly going to be none of that here. This project was her best shot at establishing herself in the business, of being taken seriously as a filmmaker. And that meant Stef would have to take her seriously as well. Scooping up the folder, she stood and walked back out to where he sat.

  "Well, boss?" Stef asked mildly, as if he already knew her response.

  Sabrina stifled the urge to throw the folder. It would only amuse him. "I'll let you have your cameraman. But you'll need to come up with the kill fee for the one I've got."

  Stef's smile faded. "Really? And how do you expect me to do that?"

  Now it was Sabrina's turn to smile. "Well, there's your hefty salary…"

  "Nonnegotiable," he said flatly.

  Sabrina again sat on the edge of Laeticia's desk, a study in affability. "I'm open to suggestions."

  "You're the producer. Isn't that your job?" Do what's necessary for the production, she told herself and let out her breath slowly. "Yes, it's my job, but we're on a shoestring budget and since you've created a problem by demanding your choice of cameraman, I'm expecting you to be a professional and help find a solution."

  Stef's eyes sparked with annoyance, but he didn't say anything for a moment. He tapped his fingers restlessly and stared out the window, obviously in thought. "Do you have a gaffer yet?" he asked, finally.

  "No, I'm still working to find someone."

  "Kev's assistant usually acts as our gaffer, camera assistant and best boy, all in one."

  "I hadn't budgeted for a best boy. I didn't figure we'd need to do dolly work."

  "You did plan to have a gaffer, though, right? You do know that to film you've got to have someone manage the lights?"

  "Yes, Stef, I know that much."

  "Well, Mike can rig lights and do any dolly work we need, plus be Kev's camera assistant. The money you save there should be enough to cover the other cameraman."

  Much as she hated to admit it, he was probably right. She'd been hoping to make him squirm a little longer. "Fine. Send me the information and I'll check the numbers. If you're right, all we have to do then is start filming and come up with a pilot that sells."

  "Doesn't sound too hard."

  "Not as long as we deliver what Royce Schuyler expects."

  "Gus said it's about sex," Stef said, unperturbed. "How hard can it be? What's your angle? The sexual revolution revisited? Sexual empowerment for women? The new chastity?"

  Sabrina moved to Laeticia's chair and permitted herself a small smile. She was going to enjoy this. "Footage of exhibitionist couples in the act? A sex toy factory? Men who do origami with their cocks?" She would have savored watching his jaw drop more if he hadn't looked so damned gorgeous. "Don't tell me I've shocked you, Stef. You used to be made of sterner stuff."

  "You've got to be kidding me. You can't put that kind of stuff on TV," he said positively.

  "Who said anything about TV? Cable," she enunciated as though for a child. "It's for late-night cable. Have you seen what they run these days? Trust me, this footage will be tame by comparison. It'll just be more interesting because it's the real thing." She pulled a list of topics from the folder and handed it to Stef. "The first shoot is an ex-stripper who has house parties teaching women to lap dance and take it all off for their husbands."

  "No way."

  "Royce Schuyler was drooling over the idea," she said with relish.

  "He couldn't have been drooling too much or you'd have come away with a contract."

  "Come on," she snapped. "No one gets a contract for a doc series sight unseen. He liked the concept, though. Bring the wild side to Middle America. It'll be sexy. It'll be fun."

  "No. Not just no, but hell no." Stef walked up to brace his hands on the desk and lean in toward her. "You are out of your mind if you think I'm going to have anything to do with this kind of project. I've got backers who would never return my phone calls if they knew about it."

  Sabrina leaned back in her chair and reminded herself to keep her cool. "No problem. Walk out. I'll just tell Gus that you're not interested," she said airily. He had to be pretty desperate, she figured, or he wouldn't be in the same room with her. "Of course, he might be a little disappointed to find out you're not going through with your side of the deal."

  "It's not a deal, it's a favor."

  Sabrina's smile widened. "In Hollywood, it's the same thing, Stef. Of course, I realize that you've always been above … commercial ventures. Cheer up, sugar. It won't sting so much after a while." She rose and leaned toward him to give him a careless, dismissive kiss on the forehead.

  It was a mistake.

  * * *

  It was more instinct than intention. Without thinking, Stef angled his head to find Sabrina's mouth. To teach her a lesson … to test them both … to show himself that the past was done. He could have given himself any of those reasons. Any of them would have been easier to accept than the possibility that he just wanted to find out if she felt the same.

  Then the heat flared through him and he didn't have to wonder any more why he'd done it.

  The taste of her flooded him with delight, like the flavor of some decadent, long-denied dessert. It sucked him back through the years to their first kiss, their last kiss and everything in between. Cool and smooth, her lips were slightly parted at first in shock. He heard her soft, smothered sound of surprise and faint protest; then her mouth was avid and hot against his. Sensations blurred, the sultry scent of her rising around him, the silky strands of her hair spilling over his fingers as he framed her face with his hands.

  He wanted more, wanted to have her body naked and quaking under his, to see if she still moved the same way, made the same noises. To see if the same things still turned her on. Then he heard her sigh and felt her surrender herself to the moment.

  Small sounds were deafening in the tiny room: the stroke of skin, soft exhale of breath. On the radio, a silky guitar line twined over the voice of a man singing about conquering a lover. Sun spilled across them where it came in the window.

  And two people stood, caught in a moment that telescoped the years into nothingness.

  * * *

  Sabrina lifted a hand to Stef's hair, running her fingers through it. She struggled to keep a sense of self, but the sensation overwhelmed her. It was as though she'd spent the past eight years trying chair after chair, finding each uncomfortable, and suddenly the words in her mind were oh, this fits, as she sank back into it.

  Into him.

  It had been so long since the touch of a man had felt so right. And such small touches, only the tantalizing brush of lips, the erotic intimacy of a tongue, and feather-light slip of fingertips over her cheek. Smooth, liquid and slow, the pleasure flowed through her. Time and thought receded. There was only the now, with its endless resonances of before.

  Then the door slammed back and someone hurtled into the office with a joyous cry.

  "It's a boy!" Laeticia stood in the doorway holding out a bottle of champagne, her triumphant expression morphing into shock as she saw Sabrina and Stef jerk apart. "Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

  "No, come in. We were just…" Sabrina willed her pulse to steady. It hadn't meant anything, she told herself, just a kiss like any other. The important thing was not to react. She moved swiftly around the desk to pull Laeticia into a hug. "Congratulations, Auntie."

  "Yeah, well, I should get out of here."

  "Not at all," Sabrina said with a hint of panic, drawing Laeticia into a chair. It gave her time to think, time to remember how absolutely done with Stef she was, had been for years. "I want to hear all about it." And she did, too. "Mr. Costas was just leaving."

  "Not quite yet," Stef countered, looking irritatingly unruffled. "We still need to f
inish that preproduction meeting."

  "I thought it was finished. You clearly don't want to make the pilot that I've already pitched to the cable chief. I've got to deliver what he verbally committed to. Guess that means I have to get a different director."

  "I'm your director," he said flatly.

  "Not if you don't want to make the documentary I'm selling."

  "Don't forget the contract." He nodded toward the fax machine where Laeticia was unobtrusively changing the paper.

  "The contract just says we work together on a pilot. Period."

  Stef looked at her, amused. "Excuse us," he said to Laeticia, and pulled Sabrina into her office, closing the door.

  "Don't manhandle me," she spat.

  "I'm not. I'm just trying to get some privacy. We have a contract to work on this project together," he said calmly.

  "Fine." An edge entered Sabrina's voice. "Then we do it my way."

  "No," Stef shook his head, "we do it our way."

  "And what way is that? You were never much good at compromises, Stef."

  "Neither were you," he said, looking at her stubborn jaw. "Looks like this will be a learning experience for both of us."

  Sabrina took a step closer to him, eyes defiant. "The first thing you should learn is not to assume that anything you once knew still applies. I'm not a teenager anymore."

  "No," he agreed, running his gaze over her, "you're all grown-up."

  "And I've grown out of a lot of things. I've found my focus."

  "And that is?"

  "Making provocative entertainment."

  "It didn't take growing up to teach you how to be provocative," he said, lifting a hand toward her cheek. "I think you had that from the day you were born."

  Sabrina took a sudden, quick breath and backed away from him. "I grew out of something else in the last eight years, Stef."

  "What?"

  "You." She opened the door to the reception room and looked at him impassively. "First shoot is in Glendale. A stripper who teaches lap dancing to housewives at lunch."