by Lori Foster
“Where are you?” Louis went silent, probably expecting Sean to pick up.
“I’m there most weekends,” Sean said. “I guess he’s starting to take me for granted.”
Louis made a coughing noise, then hung up without saying anything more.
Both Sean and Fiona said, “Moron,” at the same time.
Fiona zapped a finger in Sean’s direction. “Jinx!”
“Got me.” He rested his head on his forearms, appreciating her skin, every inch of it. Appreciating too much.
Fiona stood, hardly bothered by her undressed state. And no wonder. Though her hips and ass were what could be called “Rubenesque,” she didn’t have an ounce of fat on her.
“Playtime’s over, I suppose,” she said.
“Fiona.”
Just let it go. Let her go.
She waited expectantly.
Hell, what should he say now? “I’ve, ah, got to be out of town for a few days. Got to visit a client’s celebrity restaurant in New York. Touch base with connections there.”
Her expression didn’t waver. “Have a fun time. See a Broadway play for me.”
“Plays. You like plays.”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Love ’em.”
He nodded, not knowing what else to say.
“Well, then.” She walked away. “Take a bite out of the Big Apple.”
“I’ll see you when I get back?” Why’d that have to come out as a question?
Fiona ran a hand along his wall, silent. Then, “I don’t know.”
“What?” He stood.
Her answer was whiplash smart. “I’m not backing out, you understand. I’ve got a lot to do this week. I’ve got to put together an event for Joanie Heflin’s Pilates clothes line, and I…”
She trailed off, and Sean cringed for her. She felt the glitch in their arrangement, too, but wasn’t about to say anything. Fiona was too much of a competitor.
So why wasn’t he reveling in victory right about now? Why wasn’t he calling her bluff?
Maybe because she really doesn’t feel a damned thing, said all his niggling doubts. The ones that had watched his father fade into nothing.
She’d left the room already, probably going to fetch her nightgown and coat in his room. She’d shed her silk after the kitchen, when they’d stumbled to their next athletic arena.
He followed her, planting his hands on his hips as he reclined against the bedroom wall. She was busy donning her gown, facing away from him.
His image mocked him in the closet mirror. Streaks of last night’s sweat blurred the surface, and even now, he could see the hint of red lipstick burning into his skin.
“Wednesday,” he said, watching himself say the words. “That’s when I’ll be in L.A. again.”
She was in her coat now, ready to go. Smiling, completely ignoring the bigger issues. “Travel safely, Mac. Don’t work too hard.”
“Wait.” He retrieved her lipstick from the corner, held it out to her. “You’re forgetting something.”
Morning sunlight glinted off the golden tube, winking, nudging.
Again, with the laugh. “It’s another souvenir.” She nodded toward his undies-and-bras corner, his shame. “Or maybe you’ll need it in New York. You know, for those lonely nights when it’s just you and…well…whoever.”
Was she wondering if he’d pick up some woman to keep him entertained while he was gone?
He should, just for the hell of it. Just because she didn’t own him.
As she pushed the lipstick back at him, she stood on tiptoe. Kissing his nose, she was as flirty as a feline playing with a ball of unspooling yarn.
“I mean it,” she said, “have a good time.”
And with that, she left, giving him her blessing to stray.
Sad thing was, he knew he wouldn’t.
Chapter Nine
DAYS LATER, when Mac popped his head into her office, Fiona almost jumped out of the chair.
“Mac!”
Okay. She needed to tone it down, didn’t she? After all, she hadn’t missed him that much. She’d just watched a lot of TV and gotten caught up on a lot of work. Had gone to sleep at night staring at the ceiling, tracing her fingers over her skin and pretending he was there.
It was always like this at the beginning of an affair, wasn’t it? You couldn’t stop thinking of the person, couldn’t stop the craving for them.
She’d get over it.
His grin drew her out of her chair. He came toward her at the same time. Oh, that scent, that body. Even covered by a classy, black suit, Mac made her feel like they were both unclothed, skin exposed and humming. Awareness vibrated between them, a reminder of the other night.
Lipstick. Cherries.
“You keep things on the straight and narrow while I was gone?” he asked, holding something in his hand.
The hand that had cupped her breasts, explored the center of her and worked her to a moaning peak.
Fiona tried to remain cool. “What’re you hiding there?”
He almost seemed embarrassed as his fingers fanned open to reveal a tiny wooden apple with the words “New York” etched into it.
“Oh.” She fought the softness, the sap of strength from her body. “You shouldn’t have.”
But she cradled the apple in her palm anyway. What was he doing buying her another present? If they’d included his possessiveness as part of the bet, she’d have whipped the pants right off him by now.
No. Ridiculous. He was merely trying to win that tropical vacation, courtesy of her checkbook. Trying to buy her with sweet gestures and false gifts.
She shouldn’t forget it, either.
He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, didn’t say anything. Not even an “I missed you, Fiona.”
Well, then. There it was. “How’d business go?” she asked.
She wanted to touch him so badly.
“Great. Things are moving right along.”
Things. It was no secret that Mac had some catching up to do within the company but, lately, you’d never know it. He was really on his way up, mainly due to Lakota and a couple new acquisitions, including a rising down-home indie actress and a hot Tiger-Beat favorite teen idol. An uncomfortable poke of competitiveness irked her, because she needed to be in the same position.
That’s right. She’d caught Louis’s telling glances as he walked by her office, checking her progress, keeping her working late into the night.
She ran a thumb over the apple and tucked it into her suit pocket, where she could touch it without him seeing her.
Well, then. Back to business. “So Linc and Lakota have a Soap Opera Channel special they’re filming in the San Diego area this weekend. ‘Getaways,’ it’s called.”
His sharp green eyes cut into her, but she had no idea what he was thinking. “I know. Did Linc invite you down there, too? Just as a thank-you?”
“He did.”
“Funny, isn’t it?” He sauntered over to a leather chair, claimed it by taking a seat, lengthening his legs. “How their fighting stopped on a dime. How they’re getting along so well now.”
“Coyness isn’t your strong suit.” She aimed her own sly glance at him. “You know well and good that they’ve started seeing each other again.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve been Lakota’s confidant.” Though his tone was dry, there was a trace of warmth.
When he was done with Fiona, would he move on to the diva?
She chased away the sting of her runaway imagination, told herself she was concerned only for Linc’s sake.
“They seem happy,” she said. “I hope it stays that way.”
“I know, Linc’s got a way of getting too intense. Unfortunately, Lakota gave me a rundown of their short but flammable history while I was flying to New York,” Mac grunted. “Compelling.”
She’d give half her coming paycheck to know what Lakota was telling Mac, but she wasn’t about to ask him. Not directly, anyhow. “I thought I’d join them at th
e bed-and-breakfast this weekend, just for some downtime. You?”
Mac changed position in his chair, edgy. Fiona smiled. So he had the same idea. They’d continue their bet in another location, adding some variety.
“Going down there’s not a bad idea,” he said.
Excitement zapped through her limbs. Could she wait until the weekend?
The last time she’d seen Mac, she’d drawn away from him. It’d been instinct, a reaction to having him catch her in a vulnerable moment. He’d been sleeping, and she’d been exploring the ridges of his face: his lined forehead, his strong nose and chin. His talented mouth.
God, what had her eyes told him when he’d woken up?
Hopefully nothing, because she’d recovered quickly. Plus, he hadn’t called her on it.
She was safe for now. And she wouldn’t get caught appreciating him again. It was dangerous. Not worth the heartache.
She returned to her chair behind the giant mahogany desk, a hand-me-down from the last occupant. But she’d adapted well, had made the desk her own after the first day of work.
“I guess I can drive down to San Diego after my event Friday night,” she said, picking up a pen, prepared to look like Mac wasn’t ruling her every thought. “Grace Paget, my actress turned pop star, is signing CDs and having a mini concert at Spinnaker’s Records. Then I’m good to go for the weekend.”
Mac casually extracted a Palm Pilot from his jacket, then accessed it. “I’ll drive you from there.”
He wanted to come to the signing? Wasn’t that kind of…well…normal? Something a real boyfriend would do?
He must’ve seen the doubt written all over her. “Don’t get excited. It’s a matter of convenience.”
“Sure.” She relaxed. “And I’m not excited. Just—”
Her skin prickled into wary goose bumps. Louis Martin stood in her doorway, backed up by Fiona’s assistant, Rosie. The young woman shoved her wire-rims back up her nose and made a here-we-go face.
“Louis,” said Mac, obviously not glad to see their boss. “I’m back.”
The diminutive man entered, uninvited, and sat in the other chair. Rosie stood, notepad at ready.
“I didn’t see your report yet,” he said to Mac.
Mac’s bullet-path grin split the tension, and Fiona squirmed restlessly in her chair.
“I haven’t written any report.” Mac turned his attention back to Fiona, and she sent him a wink of solidarity.
Louis’s face turned a mottled red. What a Napoleon complex this guy had. “I just checked Karen Carlisle’s column online. Fiona, good job of getting Lakota Lang the exposure.”
Victory straightened her posture. “Thank you.”
“But it’s something the Flamingo Beach publicist could’ve done. You need more than Karen Carlisle.” Louis leaned forward in his chair. “She’s small potatoes, not to mention that the piece was boring. B-O-R-I-N-G.”
The air flushed out of her lungs, and she fought the urge to sink back in her chair. She’d been at Stellar for only one week. What did he expect?
Mac chuffed. “Fine job, Martie. Now can you spell ingrate?”
“McIntyre—”
“—Do you know how much effort we’ve put into Lakota Lang and Lincoln Castle lately? We fished the fat out of the fire with them.” Mac stood, clearly irritated. “Fiona’s damage control has been right on target.”
He was protecting her. Her.
“Your soap stars run the risk of getting bland, and you know that’s death for publicity,” Louis said. “John Q public wants passion, spice.”
Fiona couldn’t stand it anymore. “Motorcycle crashes, near-death experiences, a stay in rehab? Is that what they want?”
Rosie was furiously taking notes in her corner. But at this, she glanced to Fiona, nodding emphatically. Right-on, sister.
Louis’s smile was patronizing, to say the least. She’d seen that sort of gesture her whole life. From her brothers, when she’d first run out to the lawn to play with them. From the Little League fathers, who’d yelled at the coach to take out the girl and give their boys game time. From all her previous bosses, who didn’t take her as seriously as they should have.
He continued. “All I’m saying, Fiona, McIntyre, is that you can do better. Capitalize on the conflict between Lang and Castle. It’s what keeps the public hooked.”
Mac came to stand beside Fiona’s desk. “There’s nothing to exploit right now, Martie. They’re not fighting.”
He wasn’t mentioning they were back together. Fiona’s respect for Mac shot up several degrees. Linc and Lakota didn’t need the added pressure of having their personal lives spotlighted right now. Their co-hosting gig this weekend would be enough, with them presenting the image of friendly co-stars.
She sent him a message of thanks with her eyes. Their gazes connected, snapped, sparking with contained fire.
Until they both looked away.
Louis got out of his chair, shook his head. “McIntyre, you used to be a force to be reckoned with. I don’t know what the hell took the edge off, but it’s gone.”
The rest of the sentence hung from the ceiling, a looped rope.
And you could be gone, too.
Their boss left the office, but Rosie stayed, wide-eyed in the corner.
Fiona retained her professional demeanor, even though she wanted to comfort Mac, to tell him that he was great, that she…
That she what?
His mouth was set in a grim line. Fiona just now noticed that his dark blond hair needed a trim, and the realization tugged at her heart.
Rosie stepped out of her corner, her notebook in front of her chest. “Mr. McIntyre?”
“Yeah?” So composed, so beyond her.
“I…” She came closer. “Don’t listen to him. We all know you’re the best.”
Oh, no. Hero worship. Ambitious Rosie was shining with it, almost coming off as a groupie or something.
Mac remained distant. “Thanks.”
“And…” Rosie took a deep breath, laughed. “Okay, no more. You get it. I’m gonna go back to work.” With one last, lingering, you’re-such-a-god glance, she deserted them, flouncing her way into the hall.
Fiona didn’t say anything at first. She was too bitter, and not only about Louis’s criticism. “That must’ve lifted your ego.”
“Jealous?”
Unbelievable. “Get your mind back in this game. The girl’s choosing her allies, and she’s picked you.” Fiona pressed her lips together, then, unable to help herself, added, “And I’m not jealous, thank you very much.”
Put that in your maraschino cherry jar and suck on it.
“I’ll check you on that tonight,” he said, walking away.
“Don’t be so sure about yourself. You’re not my Apollo.”
“You’ll come.” He lingered by the door, laconic, confident. “Ten o’clock’s good for me.”
She shooed him away, pretended to be immersed in a random memo. The writing made no sense. Just a bunch of squiggles and numbers.
When she looked up, he was gone.
But that night, they would meet up again, and welcome each other home with teasing kisses and passionate scenarios. The bet continued, a game that was growing more serious by the day.
Yet Fiona knew that the last inning was approaching.
SPINNAKER’S RECORDS on Sunset Boulevard claimed to stock over 130,000 titles. On Friday night, it was a hip place to hang out, with young customers weighing in at the listening posts, the in-store radio station and coffee shop.
Lincoln was relieved to finally get out on the town with Lakota. Fiona had mentioned that the actress Grace Paget would be giving an acoustic rendering of her first album here tonight, so he and his…he didn’t really know what to call Lakota…had agreed to attend.
In baseball caps and sunglasses.
Not that they were big stars, especially at their position on the lower rung of Hollywood nobility. But acting like they were couldn’t do any harm.<
br />
They stood toward the back of the crowd, brushing against each other, the contact reminding him that they really were together again.
At least as friends.
He had to pinch himself every day. On the set, the status quo remained. Both professionals, both memorizing every line, both blocking out their scenes without even a meaningful glance, both nailing the acting with flair.
But at night… Linc reached out and squeezed Lakota’s hand as Grace Paget launched into a love song. At night they “hung out,” helping each other memorize up to thirty pages of dialogue per episode. Sometimes they’d vary the routine, going to dinner with their co-stars after they shot their footage.
They were “pals.” And it was killing him.
When Grace Paget finished her set and retreated to the signing area, the sizable audience applauded. He scanned the room for Fiona, finding her in the background. She was assessing the crowd, taking up Grace’s back.
Typical Fi. Always supportive.
Lakota slipped her arms around his waist, and Linc’s arms curved up in surprise.
As natural as you please, she said, “I’m going to buy a copy of the CD. You?”
His hands slowly came down, rested on her upper arms. Wary.
Grace Paget wasn’t his thing. Lakota liked pop, he liked jazz, but it was only a minor difference. “Not tonight. I think I’ll browse the bins.”
Leaning back, she tilted her head. Staring at him, she hooked her fingers in his belt so her nails grazed his belly.
He captured her wrist, halting her. “Kota?”
“Linc.” She made puppy-dog eyes at him. “Are you ever going to touch me again? I mean, what’s it been, days since we stopped acting like mortal enemies?”
“I wasn’t sure what you wanted from me. I thought…”
“You thought what?” She pulled back, but he still held on. “That I wouldn’t want you as much as the night we broke up? For Heaven’s sake, I’ve been waiting for you to put the moves on me, boy.”
He fingered a strand of red hair that had wiggled out from under her cap, as if hardly believing she was allowing him to touch her. “I didn’t want to ruin what we have so far. This…I don’t know. Peace. The appreciation of just being together.”
