Starcrossed Hearts

by Star Crossed Hearts (lit)

  Soon Mac asked about Jessica, and Roxie sighed. "She was…okay, Mac. I spent a couple of nights there, while you were gone. She was nervous, of course, but she was up to it." Mac’s silence indicated he wanted more, and Roxie gave it up. "She missed you."

  Mac responded with a deep breath and a sigh of his own. "Well, I missed her, too. The girls here are all rather…uninteresting." He laughed. They agreed to keep in touch.

  The big house seemed too quiet somehow, too large and impersonal. He roamed throughout the rooms, taking note of Jessica’s touch here and there, finally collapsing onto the family room couch. He turned on the television, something he rarely did. Staring blankly at the screen, he changed the channels aimlessly, unable to follow any program for more than a few seconds. The commercials seemed particularly inane, and he wondered ruefully if the sponsors of his own series were as obnoxious as some of these. He stiffened as Dane Pierce’s face flashed in a promotional teaser for Bellerive, now playing at a theater or drive-in near everyone watching.

  Mac groaned in disgust and pressed the "off" button. Maybe a run would do him good.

  Part Three: Caribbean Heat

  Six

  Stormy Weather and Island Chicken

  Jessica found Amande an enigma of paradise and fear. At least in the area where they were to stay, she felt "archaic" was being generous. The Marquis Hotel was not exactly the Hilton, nor was it particularly well built or bug-free, but it was basically clean and had electricity and plumbing. Consisting of a main building with several small rooms, a restaurant and "cantina," and twenty or so small beach bungalows, Jessica’s room was one of the latter and she estimated that it replaced only about a hundred square feet of sand.

  She unpacked her bags and immediately lay down for a nap. Filming would commence the following morning, as soon as the crew had rigged storm machines and readied the boat with cameras and lights. After three consecutive flights, she needed some rest badly, and instantly passed out.

  A loud knock on her door brought her around some five or six hours later. Still fully dressed, she called out to inquire and Dane’s voice preceded his entry into the tiny room. He closed the louvered door quickly to prevent a torrent of wind from tearing through the small bungalow. A ceiling fan turned lazily above them, picking up wobbly speed as the gust hit it.

  "How are you doing?" he asked. She sat back on the bed as he flopped into a wicker chair that was wedged between the bed and wall. He looked as if he, too, had been sleeping, and he pushed his hair back from his eyes, to no avail.

  "Better," she admitted, yawning. "Is it morning already?"

  "I’m afraid so. But it’s dark because of the storm. Looks like we might not need the storm machines." Jessica remembered their last, terrible flight of the day before, and the tropical storm that had caused the turbulence.

  "Oh, really? That will be interesting."

  "It makes for great effects, but it’s murder on our crew, trying to keep the equipment from getting trashed." Again the hand in the hair.

  "Dane, you’re stressing," she observed. "You need a drink." She surprised herself by saying it, and he nodded.

  "You’re probably right, and when I see what direction we’re going to go, you can treat me, in the cantina." Jessica made no reply to his offer, but instead stood to look out the window.

  The sea looked angry and scary. The high winds were pitching their ship, the Pacifica, mightily to one side, and the giant palms were leaning landward a sporadic forty-five degrees.

  "What do you want me to do?" she inquired.

  The green eyes turned intimate, reviewing her appearance. Her hair, carefully curled for the trip, a mass of tangles around her face; her white lacy blouse was carelessly lopsided off one shoulder, her faded blue jeans partially covering her small, bare feet.

  He was tired, for sure; but he lowered his eyes and smiled, that same, lazy smile she had fallen for on the grassy hillside near Studio B. Jessica saw him in a new light. An incredibly attractive man, for whom she knew she would always have a weakness. A talented man, for whom she held the deepest professional respect and trust. A sensitive man, whom she knew understood her desires like no one else, and whom would unintentionally ignore his own sensitivity and hurt her with his callous ways. And, a lonely man, whom despite all else, loved her somehow, and somehow she knew that this love hurt him, too.

  Yes, the weakness was in her, and a powerful weakness it was, especially when he sat silently conveying his desire for her. Yet Jessica felt an odd sense of control for the first time in months. Standing before him, she smiled sweetly but spoke aggressively. "Dane, you are out of your lecherous, disgusting, filthy mind if you think for one minute these jeans are coming off for you, either now or later." To enhance her point, she leaned down toward his face while speaking, her arms akimbo.

  Without anger, Dane’s smiled deepened as did the heated look in his eyes, and before she could move away, he stood, grabbing her by the shoulders. He pulled her closer, his lips barely touching hers. "I love it when you talk dirty," he whispered, then kissed her lustily.

  Stunned, Jessica did not struggle at first, her entire body suddenly aflame at his touch. Then, breathless, she pulled away. She fleetingly thought of slapping him, but immediately realized she had invited the attack. Her pulse racing, she turned away, hoping to disguise the intensity of her response to the kiss.

  "It’s okay to like it." Dane’s voice taunted her; she heard the bed springs squeak in response to his weight as he apparently moved from the chair. Desperately she searched for a way to reason with him. Reason sometimes put men off. Except in Mac’s case, she thought ruefully.

  "Look, Dane…" she began, turning back to face him. As if to further incite her, he was now stretching his long legs out on her bed. She refused to get angry. "We have to work together here. We have to face a few obvious problems…" This statement caused him to laugh out loud.

  His slow, characteristically sexy drawl tantalized her mind. "A few obvious problems, Jess?" He laced his hands behind his neck and waited for her next move. She stared at him, unconsciously wringing her hands. "You’re stressing Jess, you need a drink." He grinned at her. "Sit down, at least, will you? I won’t do it again. I promise." He patted the bed next to him, leaning back against the wall.

  He’s incredible, Jessica thought. He just doesn’t give up. And despite the fear and confusion he’d stirred up in her now chaotic mind, she wanted to be near him and sat tentatively on the edge of the bed. She tried to formulate what she wanted to say, but he moved first. He reached his hand to her cheek and brushed it with his fingertips, dragging them down her neck to her shoulder, where he corrected the errant blouse. Jessica felt a trail of fire as his fingers stroked her skin, and she could not begin to control the molten heat pumping throughout her body.

  "Obvious problems," he repeated quietly to himself, his tone changing to a more serious one. "Do me a favor, Jessica. Remember that I’m a man, a man who could spend a month in this room with you and not get enough. Remember that I am not a god, that I have no magic power to stop how I feel. This will be difficult for both of us. I can’t hide behind the big brother role with you like MacKendall does, understand?"

  His words smacked of an honesty that shook her.

  "I can deal with a lot, when I have to. But I need your help. If you don’t want me, the way I want you, don’t¾ do¾ this." He grasped her blouse and pulled it roughly back off her shoulder, becoming more agitated as he spoke. "The audience will benefit, surely, by the passion they will see on the screen. But I want no casualties." With these words, he stood up and stepped to the door. She looked after him in awe and confusion.

  "I guess I need you to know that I struggle with my own demons, Jessica, and that despite how things look, I care about you and want success for you without the pain I’ve known. You are both a delight and…an obvious problem for me." He stared at her, his eyes demanding her understanding. She stared back, hers becoming soft and liquid.

&
nbsp; "We’ll meet in thirty minutes to firm up the schedule. In the cantina." With that he was gone into the wind. Jessica shook her head in wonderment over the complexity of this tempestuous man. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, her head bowed and her eyes closed, waiting for the trembling to subside.

  ~ * ~

  By the time the cast of Lost Season arrived on Wednesday, the special effects wizards had already worked their magic by creating the extraordinary setting called for in the script. By Friday most of the stormy shipwreck had been shot from fifty different angles. Dane was tremendously pleased with the footage, and had been wearing a permanent smile for two days. An impromptu party commenced Saturday night in the cantina, where the majority of the cast and crew spent their evenings drinking, dancing and trading fish stories. An old jukebox blasted out scratchy, decades old rock music, and ceiling fans did their best to confuse the continual flight of a million insects who apparently liked the company of the American troupe.

  Claustrophobic in her nine by nine foot bungalow, Jessica knew it was too early to call Mac and decided to join the cantina group for a short time. Outside, the storm raged on, and she had to fight to get to the main building where the bar was located. Surprised faces looked up as she entered, and she made her way across the crowded room to a corner where her double, Melinda, and a few other cast members and extras sat around a large round table. She was offered a Daiquiri and she accepted it, after being jokingly assured it contained no tainted water. She looked anxiously around for Dane, to no avail.

  The drink liquefied her unnourished body and she ordered a second. Melinda patted her on the back. "Glad to see you’re really one of us, Jess," she laughed. If only they knew, thought Jessica, how much more experienced they were than she. They seemed like such seasoned players, it didn’t feel fair that she was suddenly a big star, with such little history of struggle.

  The room seemed foggy with cigarette smoke, the windows battened down against the violent wind. It was hot and muggy despite the fury blowing outside. She was wearing a knit tank top and walking shorts, and still the heat was nearly unbearable. Braless, she felt sweat trickle down her chest and paint a dark streak on her shirt. The drinks made the cantina seem like a scene from an old movie, and she dreamily imagined Gary Cooper or Humphrey Bogart walking into the dim, smoky room.

  She caught her breath as she noticed a familiar figure approaching her from the jukebox across the room; but her chest sank in an odd combination of relief and disappointment as she recognized the young man as Kyle Wagner, Dane’s stand-in and stunt double. He leaned down before her and smiled.

  "Hello, Miss Jessie, nice of you to join us." Kyle was probably five or six years younger than Dane, handsome and cock-sure of himself. Despite his somewhat narcissistic tendencies, everyone like Kyle and his winning smile. "You look like you need to dance."

  Jessica looked up at him through her lashes, taking just long enough to respond to put him slightly off-guard.

  "How sweet of you to notice," she responded, slowly getting to her feet. It was obvious that Kyle had not expected her to consent; he blushed lightly and glanced around the room. It was common knowledge that Jessica Taylor was the boss’ property.

  The jukebox began pounding out some hard-driving eighties rock as Jessie joined Kyle on the dance floor. It felt good to let loose, to dance off some of the tension that had layered on them over the past several days. Kyle seemed quite taken by Jessica’s attention, and daringly grabbed her with a challenging smile.

  "Ever do any dirty dancing?"

  "Maybe you could show me," she replied playfully.

  The music was loud and the room had become a broiler. It was unreal to Jessica, seeming more like a daydream than reality; when she looked at Kyle, it was Dane’s laughing eyes she saw. Her imaginary vision turned real as she caught sight of Dane leaning against the wall near the door, his arms folded on his chest, his smile dangerous.

  She continued dancing with Kyle, who had not yet noticed Dane’s appearance in the cantina. She felt the heat of Dane’s eyes on her, boring through her, threatening her. At last the song wound down, and Kyle boldly kissed her on the cheek before turning back toward the jukebox to poke in some more quarters. It was obviously to his liking that Jessica was favoring him; however, he had not bargained on walking right into Dane Pierce as he turned to rejoin Jessie where she waited on the dance floor, her hands resting on her hips.

  The almost wicked smile still on his lips, Dane put his arm around Kyle and walked him toward the table in the corner of the cantina. Although the music began again and conversations continued, all eyes were on them as they stopped to briefly discuss some unheard topic, Dane smiling, Kyle nodding, his face uneasy and overly agreeable to Dane’s suggestions.

  Jessica watched the scene unfold with irritation. She hated Dane for interfering, hated his possessive way with her. She turned from the dance floor as Dane approached, but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her back. "If you want to dance like that…" he said, grinning as the next record to drop onto the player crooned a torchy tale of lustful blues.

  Dane took her into his arms, skillfully moving her around the floor in a blatantly lustful exhibition for the watching crowd; his hips moved against hers, his thigh sliding between hers as he dipped her backwards in an erotic maneuver that would have challenged Patrick Swayze’s own moves. He held her there for a dizzying length of time.

  She stared up at him, her hair wet and sticking to the perspiration on her face; she could feel her damp shirt stretched down and taut across her breasts as her chest heaved with emotion. It was a picture of perfect control, Dane’s control over Jessica.

  He whipped her back up, spinning her a half turn before stopping with his lips not an inch from hers; she moved as if mesmerized, seeing only Dane, responding to his touch; programmed only for him.

  The song ended, and with it, the "spell." Jessica walked purposefully, if weakly, to the table and sat down. Dane followed, shouting his request for a drink to the bar and straddling a chair facing her. Immediately, two or three of the girls stood and moved to another table.

  I’m Lauren Bacall, Jessica thought, be sultry. She narrowed her eyes and leaned her head back. Too bad I don’t have a cigarette, she mused; as if I smoked.

  She eyed Dane coolly. I suppose I should go change into a turtleneck, she thought dryly. Still Bacall, she spoke. "How goes it, Pierce?"

  "You tell me. We’re ahead of schedule." The grin was unmistakably his most luscious. Jessica thought the room had suddenly become foggier, but she could see Dane’s smile quite clearly. Truly a Cheshire smile, she decided. And he, a Cheshire Cat, always moving around her, appearing and disappearing.

  "What’s next?" she inquired, thinking she even sounded like Bacall.

  "Next, we make love on the beach." She knew he was speaking of the next day’s shoot; that weather permitting they would commence with the most difficult scene, at least for her. His comment had brought forth a vague, erotic image to her mind and an aching arousal to her body. The thought of Dane making love to her on the sand was more than she could handle without giving herself away. Masking her desire, she feigned belligerence and stood up to leave.

  "Good night. I have to go before I say something seductive." Sarcasm coated her every word. Dane stood, ignoring her barb and taking her arm.

  "Don’t go." His voice cut the heavy air like a blade.

  "Let go of me."

  "Sit down." Again the sharpness biting her, his hand almost brutally grasping her arm. Their eyes were locked in a battle of wills, and the rum in her stomach burned. She sat back down, slowly, and he followed.

  "Why do you fight me so? Why can’t you accept the way I am, and treat me like you treat the others? Jesus, you act like I’m some kind of monster."

  "You’re not like the others," she said flatly. Pain gripped her inside. She wanted to be honest, to tell him how she really felt, tell him that it was all she could do not to rush into his arms at
his slightest look at her; that her outward disgust with him was only her feeble defense against the enormous power he held over her. That right at this moment she wanted him more than anything she had ever wanted in her entire life. She suddenly felt drained and empty, and her voice was small and weak.

  "Please, Dane, let me go."

  He looked around. No one now seemed to be paying any attention to their intimate conversation. "I’ll walk you to your room. It’s bad outside."

  "No, I’ll be quite fine, thank you."

  "Jessie, honey, you’re toasted. Don’t make a scene."

  Outside, she fought him. "Don’t touch me! I wouldn’t want to encourage you."

  Dane let her words go with the wind as he took her down the path to her bungalow. Once inside, they were both sobered by what they found. One of the palms in front of the small structure had toppled, crashing through the window and wall over the bed, destroying half the room.

  "They’ll just have to get me another room," Jessica asserted nervously.

  "No more rooms. We’ve over-filled the place already."

  "I can share with Melinda or one of the other girls," she reasoned, hurriedly packing her things, which was difficult enough in her emotional state without the addition of the wind and the sputtering, threatening raindrops that began to fall through the gap in the wall.

  "Nope. You, me and Doug Lewis are the only ones with private rooms. Everyone else is already doubled or tripled up." When she finished packing, he took her to his bungalow, which was two rooms, the outer one he obviously used as a make-shift production office. No sooner had they closed the door than the lights flickered and went out. "Damn!" he cursed, picking up the phone, which Jessica deduced was dead from the way he slammed it back down.

  Jessica’s voice was edged with fear, her mind sobering quickly. "Dane?"