“You forgot to break,” Lyle pointed out.
“What?” Michael turned to look at the director, his expression dazed.
“The break,” Lyle said, suppressing a smile. “Right at the end. You break the kiss and Isabelle lies down, reaches toward you.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”
Isabelle couldn’t imagine why the scene wouldn’t be fine the way they had done it. It seemed a rather minor point, and God knows this take must be good enough to print. However, she merely nodded, unable to pull together her woolly thoughts enough to argue.
Michael moved back to his rock, and they played the scene again. His eyes were blazing with sensual heat as he spoke to her, and his voice was gravelly with desire. Tendrils of fire darted through Isabelle’s abdomen at the sound of it, and when he kissed her bare shoulder and throat, she shivered with passion, unaware of how her face softened sensually. She was eager for his kiss now; it was all she could do to hold back until his mouth came down on hers. When at last it did, a little groan escaped her throat.
The sound almost undid Michael. He shuddered, and his mouth ground into hers, his tongue filling her mouth with heat. His hands dug into her hair, as if holding her head still to the depredation of his lips. Isabelle felt as if she were consumed with flames. Her hands skimmed over his shoulders and back, caressing his bare skin.
Finally he broke their kiss and pulled back. He gazed at her, his chest heaving. Isabelle stared back at him, her lips soft and swollen from his ruthless kisses, her eyes lambent with desire. She did not hear the sucked-in breath of the cameraman as he zoomed in for a close-up of her face. She was too caught up in desire, her whole body thrumming for Michael’s touch.
Isabelle lay down on her back, her dark hair rippling over the rock and cascading off it. Her eyes never left Michael’s. Then she raised her arms, silently inviting him to come to her, and he came down to kiss her again.
The director called “Cut,” and there were audible sighs from all the crew. Michael drew back reluctantly.
“That was perfect. Loved the way your hair fell over the rock and off it, Isabelle. Remember to keep her right there, Cassie. Okay, let’s take a break. Then we’ll rehearse the next scene.”
Isabelle nodded, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. Now that the scene was over, she was aware of how sensual it had been. She had heard the soft noises from the crew when the scene ended, the whispered comments. Anything that could stir a jaded television crew like that had to have been exceedingly stirring. It made her hot with embarrassment to think how she had revealed herself. There was no way any of them would think she was just acting.
She moved away from the lagoon, ignoring everyone. But she was very aware, nonetheless, of where Michael went. Cassie Shumway brought her a soft drink, and Isabelle sat down on the bench, pretending to study her script while she drank the cola. Looking down at her front, she could see the outline of her hardened nipples pushing against the formfitting cotton top. She blushed, fighting down an urge to cover her breasts, knowing that the gesture would only make her condition more obvious.
However, she could not keep from glancing up and over at the low rock wall, where Michael sat, one foot up on the wall and his arm braced on that leg. He was watching her; she saw his gaze drop to the front of her shirt. She blushed fiery red and dropped her eyes back to her script.
No doubt he was enjoying her discomfiture, she thought furiously. She hated the way she had reacted to him. Even if he hadn’t been the villain she had always assumed he was, it seemed incredibly weak of her to just melt at his kiss like that. After all, it wasn’t as if she still loved him. No, it was simply animal desire, and Isabelle disliked letting her control slip, especially in front of all these people. She could just imagine the kind of comments she would have to endure from some of them for the next few days.
“All right, kids,” Lyle announced, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s get back to work. We have to move quickly to keep this light.”
Isabelle moved back to her spot reluctantly, fearing the passion that could come sweeping back up in her. Yet she could not deny that deep inside she was also eagerly awaiting Michael’s kiss, her hunger rising up. She wanted to feel his lips on hers again, wanted to be seared with his heat.
Debbie darted in, arranging Isabelle’s hair so that it rippled smoothly over the rocks again. Michael lay down beside her, and Isabelle’s breath quickened at his nearness. He leaned across her, planting one arm on the other side of her as it had been in the scene before. His face loomed over her, still marked with the slackness of desire. Heat blossomed between Isabelle’s legs at this evidence that he had been as moved by their previous scene as she had been.
They rehearsed the scene, talking their way through the kisses and caresses, making sure that they were as mechanical and brief as they normally were during rehearsal. It was impossible for Isabelle to be entirely indifferent to his fingers skimming down her arm and her side or his lips brushing against hers; she felt an inner quiver each time. But she was sure that it was nothing that was visible to anyone else, even Michael.
When it was time to film, Isabelle slid her arms around his neck, and Michael lowered his face to hers, his mouth covering hers. Isabelle heard Lyle calling for the cameras to roll, but it didn’t matter. Michael’s mouth was already moving against hers. She struggled mentally for a time, trying to retain her control over the scene, to kiss him in the same detached way she had enacted other love scenes. But heat was flooding through her body, and her mind was quickly losing all thought of anything except how hot and firm his lips were and how much she wanted to feel his tongue in her mouth again. Michael deepened his kiss, as if he knew what she wanted. Or perhaps it was simply that he wanted the same thing. His tongue explored her mouth, tasting again all its remembered sweetness. They kissed again and again, the barely cooled embers of their passion flaring into life. Heat pooled between Isabelle’s legs, and she ached to wrap them around Michael, to press that hot seat of her desire against him. His hands clenched in her hair, and he groaned.
Pulling his mouth from hers, he began to rain kisses down her throat, and his hand slid down her side and onto the naked flesh of her stomach, bared by the blouse knotted beneath her breasts. Isabelle quivered when he touched the sensitive skin, and she let out a choked moan. His mouth came back to hers, and they strained together, kissing passionately.
When the director called, “Cut,” it was a long moment before Michael pulled back. Isabelle gazed up at him. His face was flushed, and the skin seemed stretched too tightly across his facial bones. His breath was coming fast, and when he looked down at her, his eyes were so hot that she felt almost as if they seared her skin. Isabelle had the awful feeling that her face reflected her desire just as clearly; she dared not look over at the director and crew.
“Sorry, people,” Lyle was saying. “A bird flew past you during that scene, ruined the take. We’ll have to do another one.”
Isabelle saw the muscles jump in Michael’s jaw, and he closed his eyes for a moment before he let out his breath in a long sigh.
“Okay,” he said briefly and turned back to the position in which they had started.
The heat of his body enveloped her. Isabelle had the awful feeling that she might lose control during this scene and start moaning and whimpering or moving her hands over him in a manner unsuitable for television. Looking up into his glittering eyes, it occurred to Isabelle that they might simply explode into lovemaking in front of the whole crew. She let out a shaky breath.
“Please...” she whispered.
Michael groaned and sank his lips into hers. Isabelle went up in flames. She clung to Michael, working her mouth against his as they kissed again and again. His hands moved restlessly—in her hair, down her arm, along her hip. She could feel his hard desire against her leg, and a throbbing ache came between her legs.
He threw his leg across hers, pressing her intimately against that hard length. Isabe
lle sank her hands into his hair. His hand caressed her side; his thumb brushed against the swell of her breast. Michael tore his lips from hers and kissed her face and neck, his breath rasping in his throat. His mouth moved downward, pausing to lave the delicate hollow of her throat, then drifting ever lower toward the swell of her breast.
Isabelle’s breasts rose, aching to feel his touch; her nipples tightened into hard buds, pushing eagerly against her shirt. She wanted to feel him against her naked skin, to have his fingers on her breasts, to open her legs and take him into her.
It took three calls before the director’s voice finally cut through the haze of their passion. Dazedly, Michael lifted his head and looked up.
“Sorry,” Lyle said. “You know we can’t have your body on hers from the waist down, Michael.”
Michael glanced down and realized that he was indeed stretched out full-length on top of Isabelle. Hastily he moved to the side, mumbling, “I’m sorry.”
Isabelle, coming to her senses, realized what a scene they must have presented to everyone present, and she blushed fiery red.
“We’ll have to shoot it over,” Lyle went on.
“What?” Michael’s voice came out as a croak. He stared at the director. His face was stamped with passion, his eyes heavy-lidded and fogged with desire, his mouth full and wide, his skin flushed. He sat up, letting out an expletive, and shoved a hand through his hair.
The director’s lips quivered, and he hastily covered his mouth with his hand. Someone snickered and quickly muffled it. Michael’s eyes narrowed, and he looked around at the crew. One of the men turned away, and another bit his lip, widening his eyes innocently.
“Wait a minute!” Michael exclaimed. “This is a joke, isn’t it? You got it on the first take. Last time, too!”
One of the cameramen burst out laughing, and everyone joined in. Lyle guffawed, holding on to his sides. Michael groaned and fell back onto the ground. He began to curse fluently.
“A joke?” Isabelle sat up, fury flooding through her. “You mean this is one of your stupid practical jokes? Making us do all those takes?”
It didn’t surprise her. The crew and actors often engaged in practical jokes, a practice born, no doubt, of the long hours of tedium between takes, as well as the familiarity of constantly working together. Isabelle had more than once helped to further one or another of the jokes, and she herself had been caught twice. The other times she had laughed along with the others, but at the moment she was having trouble seeing the humor in the situation. Her entire body was thrumming with unsatisfied desire. Worse than that, the hunger Michael could create in her had been so obvious to everyone that they had built a practical joke on it.
Without thinking, she jumped to her feet and lithely clambered up from the rocks and across the path to where Lyle stood, watching her somewhat apprehensively. Beside him was a picnic table, on which the crew had piled various pieces of equipment. The cooler, from which they had been pulling soft drinks all day to quench their thirst, was also there. Isabelle veered slightly to her left, picked up the cooler, now empty except for a little ice and the water that had melted in it all day, and turned to the director. Lyle’s eyes widened, and he started to move, but he wasn’t fast enough. Isabelle hurled the cold water upon him, tossed the cooler aside and stalked off. Behind her, she could hear Michael’s roar of laughter.
* * *
Isabelle’s satisfaction was short-lived. She jumped in one of the ubiquitous taxis waiting outside the lagoon’s entrance, having no desire to return with all the others in the vans. On the long ride home, her anger cooled, and she regretted her display of temper. It hadn’t helped; the others still were aware of her passionate response to Michael, perhaps even more so since she’d gotten so angry over the joke. She was still just as embarrassed, and now she would have to apologize to Lyle, as well.
Feeling thoroughly disgruntled, she went immediately to her room to shower away the dirt, grit and sunblock. Then, wrapped in her terry-cloth bathrobe, she ordered dinner from room service and sat on the balcony to eat it, watching the darkness gather on the ocean. She set the tray on the small table to the side of the chair and just sat, watching the stars and the lights on the water and wishing that she could relax.
Despite the shower and rest, she was keyed up. It was ten o’clock, and they had an early shoot tomorrow; she ought to get to bed. But Isabelle knew that any attempt to sleep right now would be useless. The heat had died down in her body, but there was still an unsatisfied, achy feeling low in her abdomen, and her nerves were as taut and twanging as violin strings. She could not stop thinking about Michael, could not keep from remembering the way he had kissed her this afternoon.
With a low growl of frustration, she stood up from her chair and stalked to the railing. She stood there, looking out at the ocean, her hands curled around the metal railing. There was the sound of a sliding glass door opening on the balcony next to her, and she whirled around, startled.
Michael stepped out of his door and softly pulled it closed. “Hello, Isabelle.”
Isabelle grimaced. This was the last thing she needed—to have to talk to Michael. “Hello.”
Her voice was notably lacking in enthusiasm, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. He came to the waist-high metal railing between their balconies and rested his hands on the top of it. Neither of them had turned on the lights on their balconies, and curtains shaded the light from inside their rooms, but there was enough moonlight to enable Isabelle to see him. The cool light washed over his face, highlighting the strong cheekbones and turning the blue eyes dark. He was wearing shorts and a tank top, and the bare expanse of his skin gleamed. Just seeing him made her nerves begin to hum.
Michael smiled. “I liked the way you handled Lyle today.”
“Oh.” Isabelle shook her head. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’ll have to apologize to him.”
“Nonsense. He deserved it. They all did. They shouldn’t have involved you in the joke. It was me Lyle was trying to get—retaliation for that one I pulled on him two weeks ago. I should have guessed. They should have told you, but...” He shrugged. “I think it was a spur-of-the-moment thing. They saw how kissing you affected me. It was too good a joke to pass up.”
Isabelle, too, moved up to the railing. She shouldn’t stand this close to him, she knew, but she could not seem to control her limbs any more than she had been able to control herself this afternoon. She stood there, not quite daring to look Michael in the eyes, but instead concentrating her gaze on the railing, where her fingernails idly picked at a flake of peeling paint.
Michael’s hands came down to grip the railing on either side of her hand. Heat rose in Isabelle, and her breath was suddenly shorter.
“I guess I’m lucky it didn’t turn out any worse,” he said huskily. “There were a few moments this afternoon when I hardly knew where I was, I was so crazy for you.”
He moved forward until he was pressed against the railing, his body only inches from hers. His breath ruffled Isabelle’s hair, and she could smell the faintly soapy scent of his body. He put his hands on her shoulders, and a shiver ran down through her. She told herself that she should move away, but she could not.
Slowly he smoothed his hands down her arms, and even though the thick terry-cloth material lay between their skins, Isabelle still trembled at his touch. Unconsciously, she swayed toward him, leaning against the railing.
“I wanted to touch you,” he told her thickly, nuzzling her hair. “I wanted to peel off your clothes and look at you. Caress you. Kiss you.”
His hands moved to her hips and crept back up her body, lingering over the full mounds of her breasts. Isabelle’s breath turned ragged, and she leaned her head against his chest, too weak to move, too hungry for his touch. It was what she, too, had yearned for this afternoon. Her breasts swelled and ached, remembering the glory of his fingers on them. Her nipples were hard and thrusting.
“I can’t get my mind off you,” Michael went
on in that low, mesmerizing voice. “I’ve been hard as a rock all evening, just thinking about you.”
Isabelle drew in a shaky breath and looked up at him. Just his words were enough to melt her loins. Gazing into his face—the hot, hungry eyes, the taut expression of desire—she was flooded with such heat that she thought her legs might buckle beneath her.
Michael’s hands moved up to the bare triangle of skin that showed above her robe. “Do you have anything on beneath that robe?”
She shook her head mutely, very aware of the fact that only the tied belt at the waist kept her robe closed. Michael spread his fingers across her chest, his fingers sliding beneath the edges of the material. Slowly he moved downward, shoving the heavy cloth aside. His hands slid over her breasts, opening the top of her robe. He stood for a moment, gazing at her bared breasts.
His face was heavy and dark with passion as his eyes moved hungrily over her breasts. “You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” he told her hoarsely. “Maybe even more so. Oh, Isabelle...”
He yanked the sides of the robe apart, and the loosely tied belt came undone, revealing all of her naked body to his sight.
Eight
Michael sucked in his breath. His gaze moved slowly down over her body. Isabelle closed her eyes and gripped the railing tightly. Hot moisture pooled between her legs, and her knees felt as if they might give way if she didn’t cling to some support. She loved feeling Michael’s searing gaze on her; with every fiber of her being, she ached for him to touch her.
He reached out and lightly trailed his hands over her breasts, sending hundreds of shivers tingling through her. His thumbs circled the points of her nipples, making them tighten. He traced the larger aureoles around the hardened buds and gently cupped her breasts in his palms.
“So beautiful,” he murmured. “So soft.”
His hands slid down from her breasts onto her narrow waist, then brushed across the thrusting pelvic bones and delved beneath her robe, roaming back over her hips and caressing the curve of her buttocks. His fingertips dug into the soft flesh, and a shudder shook him.
Once in a Blue Moon Page 9
