by Julia London
“Don’t be ridiculous. A cab would cost you a fortune from here to Venice Beach.”
“I’m not being ridiculous.”
“Yes you are. Just relax. I’m going to take you home. I am not going to torture you or ask you a lot of questions, or touch you,” he said, and in a complete contradiction, he took hold of her elbow and steered her toward the parking lot.
“Do you mind?” she asked, pulling her elbow from his hand.
“Fine,” he snapped, and made a grand, sweeping gesture toward his car, indicating she should precede him.
She preceded him, all right, striding forward with the determination of a woman who wanted to end a really bad date. In fact, she didn’t wait for him to open the car door, but did it herself, tossing her backpack to the floor and crawling in over it. When she had seated herself, Michael leaned over, his eyes hard. “All good?”
“All good,” she snapped, and looked forward.
He got in the car, started it up, pulled out of the parking lot at a speed Leah did not think was particularly safe, but came to an abrupt halt at the street. He sat there, one hand on the wheel, one on the gear shift, staring straight ahead until a guy behind them honked for Michael to move.
He pulled out in a screech of wheels onto Montana Avenue.
It seemed only minutes before they were on Venice Boulevard and Leah was directing Michael to her house. When they pulled into the drive, she took one look at the yellowing grass, the trash can that was still lying on the street from two days ago, the pile of shoes near the front door, and—dear God, how embarrassing—her half-finished origami peacock. Brad had moved it from the kitchen table to the porch, and there it sat in all of its half-finished glory, with a pair of men’s briefs dangling from its head.
She wished she could crawl in a hole. She was thirty-four years old, and she lived in the middle of a scene right out of Animal House.
“Thanks,” she said crisply, grabbed her backpack, and opened the door. So did Michael. “What are you doing?” she demanded as she shut the passenger door and slung her backpack over one shoulder.
He responded by striding around the front of the car to stand between her and the house, his hands on his hips. “I see you are still doing origami. I see it has gotten even bigger.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You have a problem with big origami?”
“Not at all,” he said. “But you like the small, delicate stuff. That is why you paid a small fortune to take the class with that origami master—to get your scale under control.”
“Goddammit, is there anything you’ve forgotten? I was only in that class for a week, and you remember that?”
“You didn’t even make it a week. You made it exactly two nights before you decided you were in over your head. But that is what I am trying to tell you, Leah—”
“What, that I am in over my head?”
“No,” he said, his jaw tight, his patience obviously being tested. “I am trying to tell you that I remember. I remember everything,” he said. “I remember the origami, the acting, and how you hated the makeup guy on your last play. I remember how you looked in the morning when your hair was all messed up and how you wore my shirts that just barely covered your lovely butt, and how frantic you would get when you couldn’t find your keys.”
Her heart leapt, began to beat frenetically. She quickly threw up a hand and held it out. “Stop! Stop it right now. Jesus, Michael, have you heard a word I’ve said? I don’t want to remember!” she cried, and dropped her arm, tried to step around him, but he blocked her path and caught her by the shoulders. And in spite of her cry of indignation, he forced her to look up, to look at him. There was a glint in his eyes as if he had no intention of ever letting her go.
“I remember how you used to laugh at my stupid jokes and how we’d make spaghetti and fling it at the wall to see if it stuck, and how I never saw a single Monday night football game the entire time we were together, because there was that stupid cooking show you refused to miss.”
“Okay, all right,” she said, and feeling overwhelmed and angry, she grabbed his wrist, tried to pull it from her shoulder. “You remember. Congratulations. But it still doesn’t change anything.”
“I remember,” he said, pulling her closer, “how you taste, how you smell, and how you look completely naked.” His gaze dropped to her breasts.
She was on the verge of crumbling. “Oh God, please don’t do this,” she pleaded.
“I remember the little smile you have on your face when you sleep and how you moved all my stuff in the bathroom to the bottom drawer to make room for all your things.”
Leah remembered all that, too, and more. She closed her eyes and dropped her head back, remembering what he looked like naked, how hot and hard he felt inside her, the way he moved, driving her crazy. How he’d make her breakfast the next morning and serve it in bed, nibbling on her toes while she nibbled toast. She didn’t dare open her eyes, didn’t dare look at him, for fear of crumbling completely.
But Michael pulled her a little closer and whispered in her ear, “I remember how we used to make love, baby. I remember how to make you come.”
Dammit! Leah couldn’t help herself—she opened her eyes, saw the desire swimming in his eyes just before he lowered his head to kiss her neck.
She gasped with shock when his lips touched her skin. He skimmed her neck and face, a whisper on her skin, until he touched his lips to her mouth. It was a sweet, tender kiss, but it seared her like a branding iron. His lips were a salve on an old wound—so soft, so perfect. And then his hands were suddenly on either side of her face, cupping it, lifting her chin so that he could kiss her reverently, tasting her, sampling her. She could smell him, could feel the warmth of his body so close to hers, and she felt herself falling and falling, back to the place they’d once been.
That kiss, so wholly unexpected, so astonishingly desired, knocked Leah into a tailspin, sent her reeling and her heart tumbling off its shelf. His lips drifted across hers, tantalizing her. His arm slipped around her waist, pulling her closer, so that her breasts were pressed against his chest, and his erection pressed against her abdomen. His body, hard and familiar, made her want to sink into him, to feel his arms securely around her and his strength infuse her.
But when his hand found her ribcage and slid up to her breast, Leah mentally tripped and fell flat on her back. Rocked by the sensation of being in his arms again, her heart cried out to her to stop, to protect whatever little piece of her that was left, reminding her how deep and painful the hurt had been, and Leah suddenly recoiled, jerking back and away from him as if she’d been burned.
The smile that registered Michael’s surprise was so damn sexy that Leah was astounded she was able to resist the urge to fall to her knees and sob. Instead, she found the strength to peel his hands from her body. “How dare you,” she said hoarsely. “How dare you do this to me now, after the damage you’ve done.”
“Damage? Come on, Leah. I made a mistake.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, stroked her chin with his knuckle. “I made a mistake,” he said again.
“Me too,” she said breathlessly, still feeling his lips on her mouth. “A huge, colossal mistake.”
“I didn’t mean just now. I meant before. I should never have let you go, baby. I am asking for another chance. I want to start over, Leah. I want to pick up where we left off, keep going and never look back, because I have never stopped wanting you, not once. No woman has ever compared to you, and I realized—too late, but I realized—that I’d been a fucking fool. Give me another chance. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
She was stunned. What was this? Was he crazy? He didn’t mean what he said, he couldn’t mean it, and she shook her head, pushed her hair behind her ears, and stepped back, away from him, despising him for the look of abject disappointment in his eyes. “Why didn’t you say that five years ago when I desperately needed to hear it?” she blurted. “We can’t go back, Michael. Too much happened between
us, and too much damage was done, and too much time has passed.”
“Damage,” he repeated skeptically.
“Damage,” she whispered. “I didn’t go to Hollywood because I was too devastated to function, did you know that? I was so stunned and hurt and wounded that I couldn’t even get off my goddam couch, Michael.”
“You—”
“I lost everything!” she exclaimed, interrupting him, throwing her arms wide. “I was paralyzed with grief. I couldn’t function, I couldn’t act, I could barely form a coherent sentence.”
He looked stunned. Horrified. And still it wasn’t enough.
“You want to know what happened to me after you dumped me? My agent eventually stopped calling me, and finally sent me a letter severing our relationship. My friends from Broadway went on with their lives and kept their distance because they were afraid I would jinx them somehow. I felt like the whole world had faded from view, and it was months—months—before I could face it again. But by then it was too late. I had grieved myself into a black hole and no one would touch me. And now you come prancing back into my life five years later and say you’re sorry?” A shout of hysterical laughter escaped her. “Save your breath,” she said, her voice shaking. “I will never go back to you.”
He looked devastated and reached for her face. “God. I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Leah.”
“Sorry?” she repeated, and slapped his hand away. “Jesus, Michael, do you have any idea how much I loved you?” she asked, as tears suddenly filled her eyes.
“I loved you, too,” he said quietly.
She gasped with shock. “Ohmigod, you would say that now?” she whispered tearfully.
“You need to know it.”
“What I know is that if it is true, if you really did love me, then what you did is even more insidious.”
Michael looked as if she’d slapped him. “Good,” she said bitterly, swiping at the tears beneath her eyes. “I hope you feel awful, because God knows you left me to feel much worse than that.”
She had to get out of there, get someplace where she could just breathe, and started walking toward the house, unable to look at him, unable to even think.
“Leah!” he called after her.
She closed her eyes, told herself to keep walking, but the masochistic part of her that apparently loved as much pain as he could heap on her stopped and turned around.
He was standing there, his head low, that lock of hair hanging over his eye. “Before you go . . . I have to tell you there is nothing wrong with your car. It was just a loose battery cable.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You lied?”
“Yes, I lied. I lied because I had to talk to you. I’ll send a car for you in the morning and have your car fixed while you’re at work.” And with that, he turned away, walked around to the driver’s side of the car. A moment later, he was backing out of her drive without looking back.
Yet Leah stood in her ugly yard long after his car had disappeared around the corner, her head pounding with memories and feelings and the very strong sense that she had just stepped off the edge into an abyss.
Subject: The Chartreuse Dress
From: Lucy Frederick
To: Leah Kleinschmidt
Time: 12:02 am
Okay, you cannot possibly find fault with the attached dress. I know it’s not gold, but I’ve rethought the whole color thing. And oh, I found THE cutest guaranteed-to-get-you-laid shoes ever! They are three-inch heels, straps that go around the ankles, and very sparkly gold. If you say you don’t like them, you are not going to be my maid of honor, because I really really want those shoes! Can’t wait to hear what you think.
Subject: Re: The Chartreuse Dress
From: Leah Kleinschmidt
To: Lucy Frederick
Time: 9:15 pm
Dress looks great. Shoes sound fab.
Subject: Re: Re: The Chartreuse Dress
From: Lucy Frederick
To: Leah Kleinschmidt
Time: 12:24 am
Okay, what’s going on? The last time you answered with exactly six words, you thought you were dying with that disease you found on the internet. What happened? You didn’t do anything stupid did you, Leah?
Subject: Re: Re: Re: The Chartreuse Dress
From: Lucy Frederick
To: Leah Kleinschmidt
Time: 12:40 am
HEELLL-LLLOOOH! WHAT DID YOU DO???
Chapter Eleven
IT was the worst night Michael had spent in years.
There had been only a couple of times in his life that he’d felt such despair—once, as a kid, being removed from the one foster home where he’d ever felt safe and put in yet another foster home. And then again on his last covert assignment in Spain, when he wondered every single day if they’d figured out who he was and if he might not leave that country alive.
But as bad as those times had been, he’d never cried. He couldn’t even remember the last time he cried. But the memory of Leah’s face as she described her despair after he’d left prompted big, fat, salty tears of deep, soul-aching regret to slide out of his eyes as he tossed and turned between the sheets, berating himself.
She was right, of course—what he’d done was insidious. What made him think he could just waltz back into her life and pick up where they’d left off? What in the hell had made him think that after dumping her, as she had so succinctly put it—and man, he’d done such a number on his own head that at the time, he honestly believed he was doing her a favor—that she would merrily let him into her life again?
It was a little distressing to discover that, at the age of thirty-eight, he could still be such an idiot.
But idiocy aside, he felt a searing need to prove to her that he really had loved her, even if he’d never been able to bring himself to say it. That his leaving had been the work of a coward—there was no other word for it—and he would never forgive himself for it. In a lifetime of trying, he’d still never make it up to her.
He also felt compelled to show her that he wasn’t really an extreme bachelor, which, in her mind, apparently, had been equated to the words male slut. She really held him in high regard, didn’t she?
Yeah, well, he deserved every bit of her disdain, and he knew it. Nevertheless, he was ready to prove himself to her, to do whatever it took. But that was the problem that had him tossing and turning all night—he really didn’t know whatever it took meant.
Unfortunately, he didn’t have a lot of experience in wooing women. Usually, all it took from him was a little friendliness, a casual display of interest, and the women he ended up dating took it from there. Women who would, after just a couple of dinners and something like an afternoon of sailing, leave him little notes of affection, buy him small gifts to commemorate their dates, and make changes in their schedules to accommodate his. Inevitably, after such few dates, they’d begin to talk about their feelings, and worse, ask about his feelings before he was able to reciprocate anything but friendship and general pleasure in their company. If even that.
One of the big cosmic mysteries to him was why women were so eager to do a full belly flop into their relationships. Why did they feel compelled to spill their guts about their dreams and desires after a couple of good steak dinners? Hey, he loved having women around, loved hanging out with them. But they had a way of making him feel incredibly uncomfortable with four little words: We need to talk. There wasn’t anything in the entire universe that made him want to run faster or harder than those four words.
How ironic it was that he’d been the one to do it this time. Obviously, he sucked at it. Yet he knew—he knew—he could succeed if he proceeded cautiously. He knew that because he knew Leah, and after that kiss, he knew there was something in her yet, a desire or need or whatever it was called—just something she s
till held for him inside her. He had tasted a certain hunger on her lips that was there for him to sate if he could find his way to her. But to find her, he’d have to step carefully through the minefield of her emotions and hurt and disillusionment and all the things that he’d heaped on her.
What he needed, he realized, was a map.
His mood was not improved the next morning when he arrived at work and found Jack grinning from ear to ear. “What?” Michael demanded irritably as he walked into the ten-by-ten closet they were calling an office at the boot camp.
Jack swiveled around in his chair away from the computer screen to face Michael and leaned back, laced his fingers behind his head, looking way too smug. “Been out to the course yet?” he asked, referring to the mock battlefield they had set up.
“No. Why?”
Jack grinned. “No reason. Just wondered if you’d seen it yet.”
“Seen what?” Michael snapped. If there was one thing he hated, it was fun and games before his first cup of coffee.
But Jack just laughed, swiveled around in his chair to face the computer again, and said, “By the way, we start blocking battle scenes Monday.”
Michael tossed down his satchel and walked out of the office, striding toward the commissary tent for some coffee.
It didn’t take him more than a moment to see what had Jack in stitches—they were everywhere. Four hundred dollars worth of orchids—bought at a premium last night as the flower shop was closing, just so he could get them into the damn car he’d sent for Leah this morning—were adorning the ponytails and waistbands of the women as they warmed up, getting ready for the day.
He’d meant for the four large blooming plants to fill the backseat of the car with a simple note that said I remember. He’d meant them to serve as a reminder of how he used to send her orchids, every Monday morning. He’d meant for her to take them out of the car and put them in her house.
