Killing Time

by Leslie Kelly

  Tonight, when Caroline had returned from the Little Bohemie Inn a few hours earlier than she had all week, he was prepared for fireworks. But she seemed to have forgotten all about what had happened this morning. One glimpse of her pinched, weary-looking face, and he knew the arrival of the cast had been less than auspicious.

  “Beer,” she said the minute she closed the front door and dropped her briefcase on the floor in the foyer.

  “Porch,” he replied, just as succinctly.

  She turned right around, and yanked the door open again. Somehow she managed to kick off both her high-heeled shoes midstep as she walked onto the porch. He heard the fridge open and close, then the hiss of a bottle being uncapped. She was pulling a deep draught of it by the time she walked back into the house. “Good,” she said, wiping off her lips with the back of her hand.

  Totally non-Caroline. Somebody had had a bad day.

  “I wasn’t expecting you so early.” He didn’t approach her, never leaving the kitchen counter where he’d been chopping up some veggies for dinner. He’d planned a dinner for one, since she had never returned from the set before 9:00 p.m. this week. Without asking, he grabbed another handful of mixed vegetables and tossed them in the colander.

  She walked toward him down the narrow hallway, then through the archway into the kitchen. “Food.”

  Amused by her one word grunts, he replied, “Ugh. Hunting not good today, Captain Caveman.”

  She didn’t even react to the joke.

  “I’d give my Vera Wang gown—the one I bought for last year’s Emmy’s by taking out a second mortgage on my condo—to be sitting in a mud bath at the Casa de Helena spa in San Diego.”

  He glanced toward the back door. “It hasn’t rained for a few days, but the garden might still be a little muddy.”

  “Oh, don’t I know that it hasn’t rained,” she said, taking a seat at the kitchen table. She sipped again from her bottle. “Renauld was cursing Mother Nature all afternoon.”

  Without being asked, he scooped up a big bowlful of tossed salad and walked it over to her.

  “Bless you.”

  Remembering it was her favorite, he grabbed a bottle of French dressing from the fridge and put it beside her salad. Then he returned to chopping vegetables. “Why did he want it to rain?”

  “Atmosphere. He wanted a rainy, gray day when the contestants arrived. Forecast called for it today, which is why he brought them in instead of waiting until tomorrow, when they were supposed to come. Everything was thrown off to take advantage of the rain.”

  Mick tossed the vegetables into a pan to stir-fry them, distributing them over the hot surface. “But the rain didn’t show?”

  “Right.”

  Remembering the leaf-painting issue, Mick asked, “Tell me he didn’t try to create rain.”

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  “Is this guy a moron or what? How does he keep his job?”

  Caroline shoved a big mouthful of salad in her mouth, cooed a little, then dug in again before answering. “He’s been around forever. I think he must have something on the head of the studio. They keep him busy, but always away from L.A. where they don’t have to deal with him.”

  “So how’d he make rain?”

  She ate a few more bites before answering. Then, with a roll of the eyes, she explained, “He had the crew pull a tight shot of each person getting out of the limo and doused them with a sprinkler.”

  He grinned, picturing the scene.

  “Only, he didn’t know the hose was hooked to a well.”

  Mick knew where this was going. “Oooh, Derryville well water always smells like rotten eggs.”

  She nodded. “Yep. The first woman who got out, a redhead in a white dress, started shrieking first about her clothes, then about the smell of the water.”

  Mick wondered where Jared had been during this whole fiasco. Or Gwen’s Aunt Hildy. The old woman had been front row center, he’d lay money on that. If there was excitement to be found anywhere near the inn, she was sure to be part of it.

  “He had one of the sound guys flipping a big piece of flat aluminum to make storm sounds, but the aluminum got slippery from the sprinkler, flew out of the sound guy’s hands, and nearly decapitated another contestant.”

  This time Mick snickered out loud. She shot him a look that said she didn’t appreciate his laughter.

  “Come on, Caroline, you gotta admit it sounds pretty funny.”

  She shook her head. “Yeah, so funny that one of the other contestants burst into laughter. Which made the nearly decapitated one shove him. And, since the ground was wet…”

  Trying to keep a straight face, Mick said, “He fell?”

  “Oh, he completely wiped out. We’re talking early Jim Carrey stuff here.”

  Mick bit the inside of his cheek this time.

  “He took out four other people along with him, until nearly a carful of our enthusiastic, energetic contestants were throwing mud into each other’s faces.” She finished off her beer in one long pull. “My God, if they’d been naked we could have charged money and sold drinks.”

  “Mud wrestling usually just involves girls.”

  She grunted. “I guess you’d know.”

  “I’m not a big fan of mud wrestling,” he said, not rising to the bait of her casually tossed-out insult. “I prefer the good old standard wet T-shirt contest. Much less messy.”

  “The only good thing,” she continued, not rising to his bait, either, “was that the camera operator we’d had ride undercover in the limo didn’t get caught in the mud battle, so that’s one less thing she can hate me for.”

  Finishing off the vegetable stir-fry, he added some ginger and a few other spices, then spooned it over two plates of rice. He carried them over to the table and sat next to Caroline.

  “She hates you?”

  “Everybody except Charlie hates me. But he’s an all-around nice old guy who likes everybody.”

  “Charlie?”

  “Addison. He’s the tech director. He rented a room from you.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mick said, suddenly remembering the man. “He likes a good cigar. The smoke from the Snorkle house wasn’t a problem.” He chuckled as she wrinkled up her nose. “I took him to see rentals the same day you showed back up in my life.”

  She merely shrugged, her shoulders still slumped, her lips pulled down in a frown as she began to nibble on the vegetables.

  “Caroline, you’re incredibly likable,” he said, remembering her earlier comment.

  “Oh, it’s not me they hate,” she said, admitting it grudgingly. “It’s my title. I don’t take it personally. Everybody always hates the assistant producer because we tighten the purse strings whenever the studio says to.”

  He suddenly sympathized with her, being surrounded by hostile co-workers. “Why do you do it?”

  “I love it.”

  “Oh, that makes a lot of sense,” he said, meaning exactly the opposite. “You love working with people who don’t like you.”

  “Like I said, it’s not me, personally, they don’t like,” she said. “It’s the job. We’re the narcs on the set, the penny-pinching critics who report every single thing back to California and try to rein in impossible directors.”

  “What fun,” he mumbled as he sipped his beer.

  “I know it sounds bad,” she admitted. “But it’s not. Besides it’s just a stepping stone to where I really want to be.”

  “Director?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease. Why would you think that?”

  “Doesn’t everyone in Hollywood want to direct?”

  “Just actors. I’m aiming for producer of an in-studio cop show the network is considering for a replacement slot in February.”

  She sounded vehement, determined to make her dream come true. Not the first time he’d heard that tone in Caroline’s voice. She’d always gotten what she went after with that fire and enthusiasm.

  Even if it meant leaving othe
r things—other people—to eat her dust.

  He stood abruptly, taking his plate to the sink.

  “Mick?”

  When he glanced over at her, he saw by the look on her face that she didn’t understand his quick mood change. He wasn’t entirely sure he understood it himself. But something instinctive and deep-rooted had sparked a flash of anger that had been buried for eight long years.

  “Thanks for dinner,” she murmured.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied. “Good night.” He walked out of the room, hoping she’d have the good sense to realize he’d been about as cordial and friendly as he could manage for one day and still stay sane. Apparently she’d lost some of her women’s intuition, because she followed him into the rec room.

  “I’m going to watch a movie.”

  “Oh, good,” she said, plopping down on the love seat, curling her stockinged legs under her cute little bottom.

  No, no, no, no. No movie evening. No chance of waking up and finding her in his arms again, as he had the other morning. That was not on the agenda, not now, not any night while she remained in Derryville.

  He could leave, say he’d changed his mind, developed a splitting headache, had a night out planned with the guys. He couldn’t say it was a night in, because then she’d just stay again. Then he paused, thinking about it. Why should he leave?

  Hell, it’s my house. It’s my damn TV.

  He opened the video cabinet, spied a rackful of movies, and began to smile.

  “What are we watching? No tear-jerkers, okay?”

  He almost snickered. This one had jerking. But not of tears. He didn’t give it another thought, just dove into the crazy idea that was sure to scare her off.

  “So, you want straight-up? You’re not into anything in particular, are you?” he asked, making an extreme effort to sound blasé.

  “Huh?”

  Good start. She looked completely confused.

  “I mean, I don’t remember you being into any fetishes or real kink or anything like that. So, is straight-up boy-girl-girl-girl stuff okay?”

  She stood, stepped closer, and looked over his shoulder. He remained squatting, resisting the insane urge to turn his head and come eye level with the hem of her short, fitted little skirt. With those thighs he’d dreamed about every night since she’d come back. With that sweet, wet place where he’d lost himself for almost a full year of his life.

  He gave his head a shake and reached into the video cabinet, which was stacked high with videos and DVDs. He retrieved one particular movie from one particular stack and waited for her reaction. He knew he’d gotten it when she gasped out loud. She’d apparently gotten a peek at the title. Raunchy Redheads in Reno.

  “You think…you expect…you want to watch…?”

  He finally looked up, almost laughing at the sound of horror in her voice. She met his eyes and Mick gave her the same challenging look he’d given her the night she’d walked in on his card game. Daring her. Taunting her. Throwing down a gauntlet.

  But this time, she wouldn’t pick it up. There was no way Caroline would sit here and watch a porn movie with him.

  If she did? Well, he’d just have to go jump off a bridge or something. Because there was no way in hell he could sit here and watch a sexy video with her, either. Not when he’d been able to think of nothing else but Caroline, naked and in his arms, since the day she’d come back. Particularly today, when he’d been so close to her, when her shoulder muscles had grown loose and pliable beneath his hands. When her back, her hips, her thighs, had been separated from his by nothing more than their clothing. Her sighs of pleasure had jumpstarted every male molecule in his body. They still snapped and sparked, making him aware of each slight shift she made, each breath she took. Heat, raw and intense, roared again, deep within him.

  “You’re sick.”

  So much for heat. She was ice-frigging-cold. Good, he told himself. She wasn’t meeting the challenge. That was exactly what he’d wanted.

  But a wicked, wolfish part inside him wondered what might have been.

  “My God, do you have stock in a basement studio?” she asked, staring wide-eyed at the stack of X-rated movies in his video cabinet. “Who needs that many dirty movies? Can’t you have the decency to hide them in the garage or attic? Or how about putting them inside another case no one would ever look at, like an exercise video. That’s what a normal person does!” She stepped back, shaking her head, but not removing her eyes from the cabinet.

  She didn’t stare too closely. If she had, she would probably have noticed that ninety-five percent of the films were still wrapped in plastic. Unopened.

  He could have explained. He could have told her that his friends had always given him crap about how he had missed his true calling and he should have just had sex for a living because women were always after him. So every time they came over for a poker night, they all brought him movies. The cheesier, nastier and ranker the better.

  “I take it you’re not up for it?” he asked, raising an innocent brow.

  “No, I certainly am not.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said with a shrug as he stood, video still in hand.

  He didn’t even turn around. He didn’t have to. He heard every one of her angry steps as she exited the room and marched up the stairs. The slam of her bedroom door probably knocked a few pictures off the wall, and it rang in his ears in the silent room for several moments after she’d left.

  That was the right thing to do. The last thing he needed was another warm and cozy evening with Caroline Lamb—in his home, the one she might have shared if she hadn’t run away back in college.

  Christ, it was going to be hard enough watching her walk right back out of his life in a few weeks. He didn’t have to make it any harder on himself by letting them get too close in the meantime. They could be cordial, and he’d wave goodbye when she shimmied on out of Derryville.

  But my oh my, what a shimmy. He went all shaky just thinking about the way Caroline’s hips had probably swayed as she’d stormed out of the room. Hell, he’d been going all shaky thinking about her for weeks.

  No one else had come close to getting his attention for ages—even before Caroline had come to town. His last relationship, if you could call it that, had been almost a year ago with a doctor who’d been in town for a few days. They’d kept in touch briefly, but long-distance things usually didn’t work out. That one hadn’t either.

  Somehow, after that, he’d gotten distracted by other things—his house, his business, his family—until months had gone by and he hadn’t so much as kissed a woman.

  “Get laid,” he told himself. That’s all he needed to get over this stupid mental thing he had going on with Caroline. Find someone else and take care of the urge.

  Even as he said it, he knew it wouldn’t work. He liked sex, liked it a lot. But in spite of what others might think, Mick knew he couldn’t just take what he needed from any warm, willing body. He was totally, one hundred percent focused on Caroline. No one else interested him right now. No one else challenged him, aroused him, made him hot and hard every time he thought about her.

  “So sleep with her and get it out of your system, jackass,” he muttered.

  The idea had merit. Then again, the idea of pushing the Titanic a little faster had had merit, too. And look how that had ended up.

  He couldn’t sleep with Caroline and then watch her walk away. First of all, because sex had never been just sex between them. Secondly because if he seduced her—which he knew he could—she’d never forgive him. And third because damned if he’d be used as a distraction while she killed time here in Derryville.

  Mick liked distractions. But he didn’t want to be one.

  He was still wondering over the whole matter when he fell asleep in front of the TV.

  Watching a basketball game.

  CAROLINE TRIED to read but could only fume. She then tried to relax in the bath but instead only fumed some more. She fumed as she brushed out
her hair, fumed as she brushed her teeth, fumed as she put on her pj’s and got into bed.

  Then she realized something. She wasn’t only fuming. She was also fantasizing. “No,” she whispered as she lay in her bed. “He’s a jerk.”

  A jerk she wanted to have sex with.

  That about summed it up. She’d been pushing the thought aside for weeks. Okay, years. But it wouldn’t die. She wanted Mick like the devil wanted sinners. Like a woman with PMS wanted chocolate.

  Like a woman who’d had sex with Mick Winchester. And wanted to again…

  Uhh, yeah. That’d be her. She wanted him bad. Hot. Powerful. Wanted him strong. Naked. Seductive. Everything she remembered, everything she’d fantasized about. It had been eight years and they’d both been practically kids. And the sex had still rocked her world. “Good God, what might he be like now?”

  Even though she told herself she’d come back to town on Sunday with absolutely no intention of hooking back up with Mick, she had to acknowledge the truth: her pasta-straining diaphragm had hit the trash can as soon as she’d returned to California. It had been replaced by a box of nice, discreet patches. Today, after he’d left her office, hadn’t been the first time she’d thought about how glad she was to have them.

  As for tonight…. “Porn movies. Disgusting,” she whispered, trying to build up her righteous indignation again.

  But somehow, instead of indignant, she felt a little…strange. Unsettled. Itchy and uncertain. Aware and tense.

  No, she did not want to watch other people having sex on film. Particularly not women with huge boobs and teeny brains, or men with huge…well, huge men.

  It was the thought, though, that was driving her out of her mind. The thought of sex, down and hungry, sultry and pounding, that had made her run from the rec room tonight. She couldn’t watch someone else having sex when she wanted it so badly herself. So how could he?