CHAPTER FOUR
Zach made pleasant small talk with the woman on his right—Maria, he remembered from Tom’s introduction—while keeping an eye on the empty chair to his left. That, he assumed, was where Simone would be sitting.
His body still carried the imprint of their collision. Even though the contact had only lasted a few seconds, he remembered with startling clarity the sensation of Simone against him. Flying downstairs in that red dress, she had been like a bolt of pure energy, and when all that energy had crashed into him it had been like holding a miniature dragon or tornado in his arms.
Beneath his suit, his skin tingled. When he caught a flash of red out of the corner of his eye his heart beat a little faster, but when he turned his head to look it wasn’t Simone.
After a few minutes Maria turned to talk with the person on her other side, and Zach took the opportunity to lean across the table to ask Simone’s friend Kate a question. “Simone hasn’t come back yet. Do you think she’s shaken up?”
“No, she’s fine. She just wanted to freshen up a bit after the, um . . .” Her hand sketched a vague shape in the air. “Thing.”
“Ah.”
Kate smiled at him. “She had a set design meeting with you today, didn’t she? How did it go?”
“Brilliantly. Your friend is very talented.”
The redhead looked pleased. “Yes, she is. She’s an amazing artist, too, although she’s very private about her paintings.”
Zach was intrigued. “Do you think she would show me her work? I’d like to see it.”
“You can always ask her.”
“Ask me what?” Simone asked as she sat down next to him.
She’d tucked her short, dark hair behind her ears, but a few soft strands were curling over her temples, drawing the eye to her wide, lovely cheekbones.
“I hear you’re a painter. I’d love to—”
“No.”
Zach raised his eyebrows. “Really? That’s it?”
“Yep.”
Most of the guests had finished their salads, and now Simone started on hers, spearing a radish slice on her fork and popping it into her mouth.
He found her blunt responses stimulating—and challenging. “I’m sure there’s some way I can convince you,” he said.
“Sure there is. Just tell me I don’t have to fly to Ireland next month, and I’ll show you everything I’ve ever done. I’ll even throw in my sketchbooks from high school and my finger paintings from kindergarten.”
Simone had already tried to get out of the trip more than once, explaining about her fear of flying. He’d googled statistics about the relative safety of air travel, showed them to her on his smartphone, and told her she was coming.
Now he shook his head. “Sorry. I e-mailed photos of your set to the crew in Ireland, and they loved it. But they also pointed out that with the many physical differences between their theater and the one here, it will be essential to have the set designer on the spot to oversee the installation. They’re very excited to meet you, by the way. And you’ll fall in love with the place once you’re there. Everyone does.”
Simone finished a bite of salad before answering.
“What about a bet?”
She hated to give up. That was stimulating, too.
“A bet?”
“Yes. If I win, I don’t have to risk death in a fiery plane crash. If you win—” She cast about for an appropriate prize.
Could he leverage this situation to learn more about her?
“If I win, you’ll stop complaining about the trip . . . and you’ll show me some of your artwork.”
“Deal,” she said immediately. “What should we bet on?”
“It shouldn’t be a bet,” Kate put in. “That’s too random. It should be a contest. Darts or pinball or who can build the best paper airplane. What’s something you’re both good at?”
Simone looked thoughtful. “I don’t think there’s much overlap in our respective skill sets. Maybe—”
“Shakespeare,” Zach said. “We both know Shakespeare. Or at least, I do—and you claim you do, too.”
Simone glared at him, as he’d known she would. “Okay, you’re on. What’s the game?”
Kate spoke up again. “Quotes. You’ll take turns coming up with a quote, and the other one has to name the play it comes from.”
Zach glanced at Simone. She’d seemed a little subdued when she’d first sat down, but now her cheeks were pink and her dark eyes were sparkling. He was surprised at how happy it made him to see her animated again.
“I’m in if you are, Miss Oliver.”
“You’re toast, Mr. Hammond.”
“Hmm,” was all he said to that. He glanced over at Kate. “Should there be a theme for the quotes? Otherwise this could go on for a while.”
Kate nodded. “You’re right. How about . . . love. Quotes about love.”
It was an appealing idea. “Yes, that should—”
“No way,” Simone interrupted. “Too obvious. I think we should do insults.”
“Insults?”
“Yes. That’s a lot more fun, don’t you think? Unless you’re not up to the challenge, of course,” she added.
He paused as a waiter set down bowls of French onion soup. “You’re on. Who should start?”
She smiled at him. “‘If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.’”
“The Two Gentlemen of Verona.” He paused. “‘Your wit makes wise things foolish.’”
Her forehead creased, and he took the opportunity to sip his soup.
“Have I won already?” he asked. “I must say, I expected rather more of a challenge than—”
“Love’s Labour’s Lost.” She thought for a moment. “‘Methinks thou art a general offense, and every man should beat thee.’”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think? All’s Well That Ends Well.” He tilted his head back so he could look down his nose at her. “‘Get you gone, you dwarf, you minimus, of hindering knotgrass made; you bead, you acorn!’”
“A short joke? Really?”
Across the table, Kate was grinning. “What play is it from?”
“The one we’re doing now. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Simone’s dark eyes narrowed. “‘You starveling, you eel-skin, you dried neat’s-tongue, you bull’s pizzle, you stock-fish!’”
He was impressed by her knowledge. Simone kept surprising him, and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had managed that.
But he’d better focus on their contest if he didn’t want to lose. Her last quote was from one of the Henry’s, but which?
It took him a moment, but he got it. “Henry IV.” He went on almost immediately. “‘Away, you three-inch fool!’”
“Another short joke. The Taming of the Shrew.”
Their battle of words was attracting attention. Conversations fell silent as people around the table began to listen.
It was Simone’s turn. She looked the way he felt: alive and engaged, and completely focused on the person next to her. “‘A gentleman, Nurse, that loves to hear himself talk, and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.’”
“Romeo and Juliet. ‘If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star.’”
Someone at the end of the table called out, “Oh, snap!”
“Much Ado About Nothing.” Simone leaned toward him, and he was momentarily distracted by the curve of her breasts against the low square neckline of her dress. “‘Thou elvish mark’d, abortive, rooting hog.’”
“Ooooh,” Kate said appreciatively.
“Richard III.” He leaned toward her and took an exaggerated sniff. “‘Thou smell of mountain goat.’”
“I’ll have to remember that one,�
� Ian murmured.
Simone shook her head. “That’s actually a popular misquote from Henry V, but I’ll let it pass.” Her lips twitched. “‘You scullion, you rampallian, you fustilarian! I’ll tickle your catastrophe.’”
“Henry IV. ‘Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.’”
She opened her mouth, paused, and closed it again. For the first time since they began, she looked stumped, and he knew he had her.
He was almost disappointed. He could have gone on trading Shakespearean barbs with Simone for hours.
“Okay, you win,” she said grudgingly, and their audience applauded.
He bowed to the table at large. “Thank you, thank you. We’ll be here all week.”
Simone shook her head at him, but she was smiling. “So which play is it from?”
“Troilus and Cressida. Never read it?”
“Nope. But I hope I get credit for having read Two Gentlemen of Verona. Only hardcore Shakespeare lovers bother with that one.”
He grinned as the waiters began serving the main course. “Even the Bard had his off days.” He paused. “That was bloody amazing, Simone.”
“Ditto. You’re a giant theater geek, you know that?”
“Ditto back at you.” The scent that rose from his plate was delicious, and Zach realized he was starving. “So when do I get to see your artwork?”
Simone shrugged as she took bite of her prime rib. “I guess I could bring a portfolio to rehearsal on Monday.”
As everyone started on the main course, the focus was no longer on the two of them. Maria was talking with the person on her right, and across the table, Ian had Kate’s full attention as he murmured something in her ear.
Zach looked at Simone. “You could do that. Or . . . I could stop by your place sometime.”
Even as the words came out of his mouth, he wondered what he was doing. He had an unspoken personal guideline when it came to work: he didn’t get involved with colleagues until they were no longer colleagues. He’d had relationships with women he’d met during productions, but they usually began after the production was over.
But if he waited until this particular production was over, there’d be an ocean separating him and Simone. If he wanted something to happen between them, he’d have to break his rule.
Simone tilted her head to the side as she appraised him. A smile tipped up the corners of her mouth, and in the few seconds that passed before she spoke, Zach had time to realize how much he wanted her to say yes.
“You said I smell of mountain goat,” she reminded him.
“‘Sound and fury signifying nothing.’” He leaned close and murmured in her ear, “The truth is, you smell like sunshine and silk.”
A faint flush rose in her cheeks. “That’s the dress,” she said.
He’d drunk half a glass of wine, but that wasn’t enough to explain this light-headed feeling. “What do you smell like under the dress?”
“I can think of one way you could find out.”
His heart began to pound, and a low thrum of desire pulsed in his veins. “I—”
His phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. Annoyed, he pulled it out to silence it and saw the name on the screen.
Isabelle.
Apart from his mother, she was the one person in the world whose calls he always answered.
Damn.
“Please hold that thought, and excuse me for just a moment,” he said to Simone.
Once he was in the hallway, he answered the phone. “What are you doing up at this hour? It’s almost three a.m. your time.”
“I know.”
Isabelle’s voice had its usual effect on him—an ache in his breastbone tinged with melancholy.
“Is everything all right?” he asked.
“No.” A short pause. “Oh, Zach—I don’t know if I can carry on like this! Nothing’s changing, and I’m beginning to think it never will.”
Zach leaned back against the wall as he repeated the words he’d been saying to her for the last ten years. “Then leave him. Start divorce proceedings.”
“I’d be left with nothing. You know I would. If it were just me, I could endure poverty cheerfully. But there are the children to consider.”
“Nigel wouldn’t let you starve no matter what kind of prenup you signed. Even if he lacks the bare minimum of human decency, he’s too proud to do that to you. And he certainly wouldn’t let his children suffer.”
He’d said those words before, too. They felt as familiar as lines from a play.
“Oh, Zach . . . you don’t know him like I do. He’s vindictive. I truly believe that if I left him, his spite and malice would be stronger than his pride.”
Zach’s hand tightened on the phone. “Isabelle, you know I would never let Nigel hurt you. And God knows I have plenty of money. Even if he left you with nothing, you know you can count on me.”
“I couldn’t rely on your charity.”
“I’m not the only one here for you. You have friends and family who would help out in a heartbeat. Are you really going to let yourself be miserable for the rest of your life? Do you honestly think that’s what’s best for your children, not to mention yourself?”
There was a silence, and Zach felt a familiar hopelessness creep over him. If only she could walk away from that sham of a marriage—
“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Isabelle began to sob, and his frustration dissolved into concern.
“Are you at home? Is Nigel in the house with you?”
“I’m home. I don’t know where Nigel is. Probably out with another woman.”
She sounded exhausted, and he wondered how long she’d been awake and crying. “You should try to get some sleep,” he said gently.
There was a short silence. “Why do you want me off the phone?” she asked. “Are you on a date?”
For some reason, he thought of Simone.
“I’m not on a date. I’m at a rehearsal dinner for a couple I barely know. If you need me right now, I’ll make an excuse to leave. I’ll go back to my hotel and we can keep talking.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I’d never ask you to do that. But could I call you later? After the dinner is over?”
Once again, he found himself thinking of Simone . . . and what might have happened between them tonight.
Maybe it was for the best. Work always came first with him, and there was that unspoken personal guideline of his. If he and Simone had hooked up tonight it would have been his first exception to that rule in a long time.
“Of course you can,” he said. “I still think sleep would be the best thing for you, but if you’re awake in a few hours, give me a call. I’ll probably be back in my hotel room by midnight.”
“Dearest Zach. Darling Zach. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“It’s my pleasure, Isabelle. Always.”
Simone was glad when the toasts began. All she wanted to do was bask in the feeling that clung to her very skin even after Zach left to take his phone call, and she had no interest in making small talk.
The toasts were well under way by the time Zach returned. He sat down, gave her a quick smile, and then turned his chair to face the father of the groom, who was in the middle of an anecdote that Simone hadn’t really been listening to.
Now that Zach was sitting beside her again, there wasn’t much chance she’d hear the rest of it, either. He was between her and Tom’s father, which meant she could stare at the back of his head for the rest of the speech.
By the time Mr. Shelburne had ceded the floor to Jessica’s sister, Simone had memorized the line of Zach’s neck and the way his broad shoulders filled out that perfectly tailored suit.
He was quietly attentive to each speaker, but Simone noticed that his left hand, resting on the table beside him, told a different story. Ever
y so often his fingers moved, tapping against his wineglass or curling into a fist.
She remembered the energy that had crackled between them during their Shakespearean rap battle. She remembered the look in his eyes afterward, when he asked what she smelled like under her dress. She was in a bit of a dating slump these days—nobody had tempted her past the flirting stage in a while—but she could still read masculine expressions and body language. As floored as she was by the idea that Zach Hammond was attracted to her, she didn’t doubt what his look had meant.
At least, not until dinner was over and the two of them were outside the restaurant.
The air had turned deliciously cool. The breeze felt wonderful against her cheeks, which were warm from alcohol and anticipation.
She and Zach were waiting together in the taxi line. She was going to ask him if he wanted to share a cab with her. Since her place was all the way downtown, that question alone would convey her intentions.
Zach looked a little remote, but then he often did. Not in rehearsals, where he was passionate and intense, but in his personal interactions.
Tonight, though, she’d have a chance to see a different side of him. What would it be like to watch that detachment transform into something else?
They were at the front of the line now. When the next taxi pulled up, Zach opened the door for her and she got in.
Then she went for it. “Do you want to—”
He shut the door and leaned down to talk through the open window.
“Have a good night, Simone. I’ll see you tomorrow at the wedding.”
She stared at him. “At the wedding. Right. Unless . . . do you want to come with me? To see my paintings,” she added quickly.
Good God. Her paintings?
In spite of her recent dry spell, Simone liked to think of herself as a woman with game. Moves. At the very least, a basic level of competence in her dealings with the opposite sex.
Now, apparently, she was reduced to asking guys to come upstairs and see her etchings.
“I’ll take a rain check, if that’s all right,” Zach said. “But I hope you’ll save me a dance at the reception tomorrow.”
“Where to?” the driver asked impatiently as Zach straightened up and backed away from the curb.
Nothing Like Love Page 4
