by Leslie Kelly
She almost laughed but held it in and kept a straight face. “It’ll do.” Then she ran another weary hand over her face. “At least until the cast gets here later today and the door becomes a revolving one for them to come in here and kvetch.”
“High-maintenance, the contestants on these shows?”
“Oh, yeah.”
The very thought made her niggling headache grow stronger, until her temple began to throb and the back of her neck to ache. She dropped her head forward and stretched side to side, trying to straighten out the tightened muscles.
Mick was still sitting there when she raised her head. Looking at him, just looking at his face, her lips twitched, wanting to smile at the sight of him. In spite of her headache, her job, her stress level, she wanted to bask in that good humor of his, be destressed by one of his wicked jokes and soak up more of his smiles.
The man was born to make a woman smile. And say yes.
Not this woman.
“You should go.”
He didn’t move. “Caro, what’s going on?”
And suddenly, maybe because he’d called her Caro, not Caroline. Maybe because his expression was so concerned and tender, or maybe because she was overemotional, overtired, overstressed and oversensitive, she told him.
“This is a nightmare. The writers keep faxing changes. As of this morning I still don’t know who the killer is and I have to brief that person on their means, motive and opportunity tomorrow morning.” She paused for breath, then rushed on. “The lead camera operator looks like she stepped out of a Goth movie and I don’t know whether she wants to get a good shot or suck somebody’s blood.”
Now she was on a roll. “The director is absolutely impossible to deal with, and he’s flirting with the mayor’s wife. The host is flirting with the mayor. The ghosts won’t come out. The trees are too green. The inn is too clean. The mystery is too simple. The rules don’t make sense. And I’ve been sleeping lousy knowing you’re on the other side of the wall and wondering who I wronged in my last life to be tortured like this on my first big production.”
Mick didn’t say a word, didn’t smile at her confession, didn’t frown at her frustration, just watched her suck in a few deep breaths as she realized what she’d allowed to spill from her traitorous mouth.
“Finished?”
She nodded miserably.
Finally, he stood up and stepped closer. “You need a distraction.”
He grabbed her hands off her lap and pulled her to her feet, until they stood nearly toe-to-toe. Every inch of her body reacted, sparking to life, remembering what it was like to be a mere whisper away from this man, anticipating a kiss, a touch, an embrace. A long, exquisite night of passion. “What’d you have in mind?” she managed to ask, unable to help it as her mind filled with the amazing ways Mick could distract her.
“Turn around.”
The two words scraped across her skin like the touch of a man’s roughened fingertip. Arousing her. Promising something indefinable and incredibly desirable. She almost whimpered.
“Turn around, Caroline.”
His words weren’t a request and she couldn’t resist doing as he said. She closed her eyes, waiting, wondering what he intended. When she felt his big, strong hands on her shoulders, felt him begin to stroke, squeeze and knead the stiff muscles there, she gave a nearly inaudible sigh of pleasure.
“You’re tight.”
Yes.
“Wound like a spring.”
“Umm-hmm,” she mumbled, dropping her head to the side and closing her eyes as he continued to knead and work on the knots that had once been her muscles and were now quickly turning into lumps of jelly. She could feel the transformation as he eased out every bit of stress tension in her body.
Only to replace it with tension of a different kind.
“Your skin is still so incredibly soft.”
His words were spoken softly, nearly whispered, but Caro heard them, inhaled them, let them wash over her, causing as much warmth as his touch.
She should protest. She should step away, throw up a physical barrier or at least a verbal one. But she couldn’t move, other than to shiver. Couldn’t speak other than to sigh.
She’d waited eight years to have this man’s hands on her again. Eight long years when no one else’s touch could ever really reach that place deep inside her that had always reacted to Mick.
He lifted her hair away from her neck and she felt his breath touch her skin, bringing prickles of sensation. He moved even closer, filling in that nearly imperceptible gap until his front touched her back, from shoulder to hip. And lower.
She caught her breath, held it, not moving as he continued to knead her muscles and breathe lightly against her neck.
One small shift, a lift of her chin, a turn of her head, and that beautiful, perfect male mouth would be on her lips.
She wanted that kiss more than she’d ever wanted anything.
“Too bad that love seat is so small,” he murmured with a deep chuckle.
Perhaps a wolfish chuckle? She stiffened. Dammit.
“Get your hands off me.” She whirled around, nearly smacking his forehead with hers. “Try your tricks on someone who’s a lot more susceptible to them.”
He raised an innocent hand to his chest and gave her a silent “Who, me?” look.
“God, you’re good,” she said, knowing he could tell by her tone that her words were no compliment. “You’re so smooth, so assured. I can’t believe I started to fall for it.”
He gave her a reproachful look. “I was trying to help. You looked ready to explode.”
Explode, yeah. A few more touches, maybe even just that one kiss, and she would have. Only not the way he meant.
“Sure you were. Help me get flat on my back on that love seat.”
He didn’t so much as look away out of guilt as he quirked one amused brow. “Actually, I wanted you flat on your front.”
Oh, good Lord, the wicked thoughts that put into her head. She gulped. “You’re sick.”
He tsked. “And you’ve got a naughty mind.”
She paused, not sure what he meant.
“You thought I wanted a bigger sofa so I could, what, make love to you right here in your office where anyone could walk in? Tempt you into doing something so dangerous, so incredibly erotic, strip off that silky blouse, tug down that tight skirt, get you naked and moaning where we could be caught by anyone from your boss to a man with a camera?”
Well, yeah. That’s what she’d thought, only not quite in those graphic and—heaven help her—delicious terms.
“Yes.”
He frowned, looking disappointed in her. “I just meant if you had somewhere flat to lie down I could give you a full back rub. It’s hard to do this standing up.”
A full back rub. He’d been intending only to help, not to seduce? He hadn’t been affected by the close proximity of their bodies? She wasn’t sure she believed him. Oh, yes, he looked both reproachful and saddened. But this was Mick, after all.
He turned and walked to the door, his shoulders slightly slumped, his head shaking back and forth in an almost imperceptible motion. Caro bit her lip, feeling like a total heel. Mick wasn’t some horny college guy on the make. He was a grown man who’d kept his hands off her and given her plenty of space since she’d been living in his house. He hadn’t made one inappropriate suggestion, dropped one naughty little word—which had really begun to tick her off for some totally twisted reason.
He’d been nothing but considerate and concerned the few times she’d interacted with him this week. And she’d practically gone and accused him of being a lech.
“Mick, wait,” she said as he reached for the door handle.
He paused and slowly turned his head to look over his shoulder. He met her stare through partly lowered lashes. That was when she noticed the grin. A purely evil, “gotcha” grin that told her she hadn’t imagined a thing.
The wolf had meant exactly what she’d thought h
e’d meant.
Her jaw dropped. But before she could say a single word, he walked out the door.
All Caroline could do was shake her head in disbelief. Then she started to laugh in the empty trailer. Finally, she muttered, “Damn, you are good.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACEY TURNER had been on the set of Killing Time in a Small Town for less than a week but it seemed like ten. Though young, she already had a lot of experience as a TV camera operator, and she’d worked on a lot of shows. It wasn’t hard to sum up how this experience was going to go down. In a freakin’ ball of flames.
The director was a butt-wipe. The celebrity host was an arrogant S.O.B. who looked at her like she was something he’d scraped off the bottom of his Andre Benninis. Derryville was a pit. And the cast was a bunch of greedy morons who didn’t know which they wanted more—their fifteen minutes of fame or the million bucks that went to the winner.
But hell, she was a studio ho. She went where they sent her. Since she was lead on the camera crew—her first shot at lead—she knew she had to keep her mouth shut and her lens cap off.
The only decent one on the scene was the one she usually hated the most—the pencil-pushing, budget-conscious assistant producer. Yeah, this always perfectly dressed woman had first looked at Jacey’s black hair, black clothes, piercings and heavy makeup with a cautious glance, but she’d at least been cordial.
And she’d totally backed Jacey up on this latest idea.
“Does the camera really add ten pounds?” This came from a busty redhead riding across from Jacey in the stretch limo. The redhead was perky and as chirpy as a squirrel, obviously hoping the hot-looking fireman dude sitting next to her would reply that she had nothing to worry about.
She did. Those curves would turn to fat in five years. Push out a puppy or two and it’d be less than that. Just to be a bitch, Jacey said, “Twenty, at least.”
Redhead shot her a glare, which was the first time she’d looked her way since the sixteen contestants had boarded the two limos back in Chicago. The rest of the time she’d just been chattering a mile a minute, making inane observations and giving Jacey a headache.
Red sat up straighter so her tight white dress didn’t show that slight little roll around her middle. “Really?”
“You don’t have anything to worry about.”
Fireman dude to the rescue. So he was a gentleman. She made a mental note.
“Will the cameras really be watching our every move?”
Jacey turned toward the worried-looking young woman on the other side of the fireman. The girl was thin, blond, washed out and had her hands clasped in her lap. Pressing the zoom button on the tiny camera hidden in the lapel of her black overcoat, Jacey winked. “Not when we’re in the bathroom, I hope.”
Washed-out went ten shades paler and her mouth fell open in dismay. Redhead sniffed, too refined to ever go to the bathroom, she imagined, much less talk about it. Another mental note: Redhead wanted to look good all the time and stick-thin would die before embarrassing herself on camera.
All this was coming in handy, as she’d known it would when she’d pitched the idea of posing as a contestant for the ride from Chicago to the inn. What better way to get to know the real personalities of their contestants than by going undercover as one of them? She had a firsthand glimpse as early alliances were formed, personalities tested, strengths and weaknesses displayed.
The director, being a butt-wipe, had shot her down. So Jacey had gone straight to the producer. Luckily, Caro had some concept of creative thinking and had told her to go for it.
She’d been at the Chicago hotel first thing this morning, wired up with a minicam. The other car was wired, as well. She didn’t feel bad about it. Everyone on this crazy show had given permission to be filmed anytime, anywhere once they arrived. And Jacey considered the limo to be part of that arrival.
“I bet I know who the killer is already,” Redhead said.
Ginger. That was her name. Like the pouty-mouthed actress on that old show, Gilligan’s Island, which Jacey sometimes watched on Nick at Night. There was the ultimate reality show idea…dump off a bunch of these idiots on a desert island and leave them there. Come back four weeks later, see who was still alive, figure out who’d killed off Ginger and give that guy a million bucks just for shutting her up.
“I bet it’s that guy who quotes Shakespeare. Nobody could have that personality for real.”
“That was his real personality,” Jacey said, having spent a few minutes talking to the professor, Nigel Whittington. “He teaches English at some college.”
Ginger shot her a look that told her to mind her own business. “That could be a cover story.” She shivered delicately and oozed closer to the fireman. “I’m so glad he ended up going in the other car. He might kill someone off before we even get to the inn.”
Ginger obviously hadn’t read the background documents on the show. Or else she was forgetful. Or just stupid. “Nobody knows who the killer is,” the fireman said, sounding not a bit impatient as the women on either side of him kept their rapt attention on his face. “To keep it as fair as possible, the killer won’t find out he’s the one until everyone is on site.”
They nearly melted at the display of manly wisdom. For a brief second, Jacey couldn’t blame them. He had some face. Some body, too. But he was so completely not her type.
“Not even the killer knows he or she is the killer yet,” said the fireman, who Jacey finally remembered was named Digg. She shouldn’t have forgotten such an unusual name.
The washed-out blonde, who’d introduced herself as Mona, a florist from Virginia, nodded in agreement. Jacey had a feeling, judging by the worshipful look on her face, that Mona would agree if Digg said Columbus was wrong and if you sailed too far you’d fall off the edge of the world into a dragon’s mouth.
Jacey swallowed a grunt of disgust. A stud on the set was never a great idea. There were sure to be catfights. Then she smiled inwardly. Maybe on a regular TV set catfights were to be avoided. But on a reality show? “Perfect,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” Digg asked, turning the full onslaught of his attention on her.
Jacey could handle him. She’d been handling smooth-talking men half her life. “What’s your story? Digg’s an unusual name.”
“Short for Diego,” he replied, his name rolling off his tongue with the rhythmic cadence of someone who fluently spoke another language. Likely Spanish.
Mona and Ginger nearly swooned. Not surprising since they so obviously dug Digg.
“And I have no story to speak of,” he continued. “I’m a fireman at a station in Queens.” He kept those big brown eyes of his focused entirely on her. He didn’t frown, didn’t look away, didn’t react at all to her unorthodox appearance. A gentleman, she reminded herself. And apparently more, judging by the small, discreet Remember 9/11 pin on his collar.
She wondered if he’d been there, telling herself she was only interested because of its historical significance, and because of how it would play out on camera when somebody ended up making a movie about it. Which they would. She couldn’t really admit, not even to herself, that seeing that pin had suddenly made her wonder if he was the kind of man she’d only ever read about or seen on TV.
A hero.
“What’s your story?” he asked.
Jacey ignored the question. She wasn’t about to let these three, or the five other people sitting in this stretch limo, know that she was part of the crew of Killing Time.
Won’t they be surprised.
“What would you do with that much money?” This came from a burly guy in a dingy T-shirt and jeans, one who’d given the redhead a visible leer when they’d entered the limo this morning. Willie Packard, Jacey recalled. She’d easily remembered that one because of an old joke from her childhood. Willie P or won’t he?
“I’d quit my job,” Ginger said, “and travel the world.”
Fireman Digg merely nodded.
�
��I’d help the poor.” Mona watched for Digg’s reaction.
Again, he responded with just a nod, even as Jacey rolled her eyes. He turned his attention toward her just in time to catch the exasperated sigh she couldn’t contain. They exchanged a long look. He revealed nothing in his stoic expression, the same one he’d been wearing since they’d entered the limo.
Tilting her head back in challenge, Jacey declared, “I’d buy a bad-ass house, and a bad-ass car and a bad-ass man to take care of my every bad-ass need.”
The two women tsked and frowned. Jacey met fireman Digg’s stare, held it, dared him to give her one of his nice, polite nods like he had the other women.
He didn’t. Instead, Digg smiled. A real smile, just for her. His wide, sexy grin revealed perfect white teeth, and two dimples deep enough for a woman to swim in. Genuine amusement and a certain acknowledgment that she’d scored a hit sparkled in his dark eyes.
Jacey didn’t quite recognize the sensation washing through her. She didn’t know why her hand suddenly wanted to smooth her hair in place, or why she instinctively sat up straighter. Or what the absurd fluttering in her stomach was all about, unless the Chicago hotel had laced her eggs with salmonella.
Then she recognized the unfamiliar feeling. Attraction.
God, she was attracted to the clean-cut, gentlemanly fireman with a hero complex and the stupid name of Digg.
She should be screaming or slitting her wrists. But funny…suddenly, keeping a close, camera’s-eye view on the thick-chested, dark-haired guy didn’t look to be much of a hardship.
No, not a hardship at all.
SURPRISINGLY, no one in the cast—or the crew—was killed on the set of the reality show the first day. Even more surprisingly, Mick wasn’t either.
He’d expected Caroline to come after him with both barrels—or a meat cleaver—after his parting shot in her trailer that morning. He still didn’t know what impulse had made him give her that salacious look as he’d left her so-called office.
Because she thought the worst.
Yeah, that was probably it. Because, just like in the past, she’d accused and found him guilty in one snap judgment. So he’d let her think his comment about the couch was a come-on. It hadn’t been. At least, he thought it hadn’t been. But considering his brain had been pretty mushy since Caroline’s surprise return to his life, he couldn’t be entirely sure. Could be the big bad wolf on his ass had been in control of that conversation.
