Not a mugger. He hadn’t hurt her.
Not a thief. He hadn’t gone for her purse.
As close as he held her, he had to feel her trembling. She nodded that she wouldn’t scream.
“I’ll take that for a yes.” He removed his hand from her mouth but kept her wrists pinned over her head.
Oh, God. Her only knowledge of dealing with the illegal mind came from research she’d done for her script. Showing fear was bad. And making eye contact established a rapport that was supposed to make it more difficult for him to harm her. Looking into those gorgeous baby blues under normal circumstances wouldn’t have been a hardship. But her brain was having trouble classifying such a gorgeous male specimen as a criminal. Still, those massive muscles presented a danger. His tight grip on her reminded her that certain serial killers had devastating smiles. Ted Bundy came to mind. The idea that this man could cut off her scream and keep her pinned to the wall, had fear sucking all the moisture from her mouth.
“What do you want?”
“The page you ripped from the Book of Celts.”
Oh, God. He wasn’t a rapist or a murderer. He probably worked for the library. He thought…he thought she’d ripped a page from the book. “You don’t understand—”
“Enlighten me.” He leaned in, wedging her spine even tighter against the wall, using his sheer strength to threaten her.
“I’m Kimberly Hayward and I—”
“You just told the librarian that you’re Dr. Johnson.”
He’d been watching her. Eavesdropping on her conversation. Yet she’d never suspected. The tight press of his massive chest against her made her light-headed. “Please, I can’t breathe.”
“Talk to me, doll baby.”
“My name is really Kimberly. Kimberly Hayward.”
“Not Dr. Johnson?”
She shook her head. One side of his well-proportioned mouth curled up in amusement.
“Are you security?” She suspected if he’d been going to hurt her, he’d already have done so. She tried not to think about what else he could want from her.
“I’m asking the questions, lady.” He lowered his voice to a silky whisper threaded with steel.
“Okay. Okay.” He’d just asked her something. But she couldn’t remember the question. She needed air. She couldn’t think with that big body pressing against her. She licked her lips. “What’s the question again?”
He chuckled, the tone of his laughter perfect for a leading man. “You’re some piece of work. Did you think you could just prance in here and steal a valuable artifact?”
“I didn’t steal anything. I’m a production assistant for Simitar Studios.”
“Yeah, right.” He tapped the pad of one finger on her skin, right in the V of her bra. Her bra?
Oh, my God.
While they’d been talking, his clever fingers had somehow bypassed her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse. And she’d never noticed.
Now aware of his fingers under her shirt, skimming across her bra’s padding, she realized that just one tiny plastic clip stood between his fingers and her being topless. Not that she had a lot to hide—but that wasn’t the point. Her vulnerability had her forgetting everything, except what he was about to do next.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for evidence.”
Lightly, he ran his fingers over the padded cups, and, although the padding was thick, so that when she hid papers inside the secret compartment they wouldn’t show, she was excruciatingly aware of her tender and vulnerable flesh just below his fingers.
Now seemed like the right time to scream for help.
As if reading her mind, he clamped one thick palm over her mouth once more, and she never got a chance to release the scream she’d been saving up. And then his fingers found the secret compartment in the bra, extracted the paper she’d just hidden there.
That he was more interested in the paper he’d found than in her breasts should have reassured her. But she’d just traded one problem for another.
“And what have we here?” He flicked his wrist, unfolding the rumpled paper. His attention concentrated on his find, and his blue eyes narrowed. “A fish and chips receipt? What the hell?”
“Mmm.” She tried to speak.
He released her mouth. He had the oddest expression in his eyes. Bright. Amused. “Talk to me, lady. And leave out the BS.”
“I’m researching a script.”
“And I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Actually, you’d make a better Mel Gibson.”
“Answer my question.”
“I think better when I can breathe.”
He eased up the pressure. “Talk.”
She wanted to button her blouse. She wanted to scream. But mostly she wanted to slap her boss Quinn Scott for putting her in this position. Luckily for him, Quinn was off on his honeymoon with Kimberly’s best friend Maggie, his happy bride, so she took out her aggravation on the nearest target. Her captor.
“You idiot.” Now, insulting him was dumb, but Kimberly barely stopped to think. Perhaps it had been his chuckle or his smile or those cool baby blues that made her believe this man wasn’t about to hurt her. But all that built-up anxiety needed release and merged into an explosion of frustration. “I’m researching a script for Quinn Scott.”
“And he asked you to steal a page from the Book of Celts?”
“Don’t be stupid. You know that I didn’t steal anything.”
“Careful of the names you call me. I haven’t checked your panties, yet.”
She glared at him. “There’s nothing in them that would interest you.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
She didn’t know how to respond to his obvious and inappropriate innuendo, so she just scowled and stared over his right shoulder, praying someone would wander down the hall. Praying that somehow she would get through the next few minutes and that doing so would give her the courage to continue with her plans, she swallowed back a smart retort. How was she going to recreate the next scenes in her script if she couldn’t deal with one man in the hall of a public library? Where were all the tourists in her group when she needed them?
Apparently, Mr. Too-Beautiful didn’t like being ignored. He tilted up her chin, forcing her gaze to him. His hand was warm, his fingers gentle, yet exerting just enough pressure that she didn’t quite dare pull away.
“Why did you tell the librarian that you were Dr. Johnson?” he demanded.
“So I could examine the book—not steal it or rip pages out of it.” When he didn’t release her, she raised her voice. “Didn’t you hear me? I said I came to examine it.”
“Why?”
“I already told you I’m doing research, although it’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.” He leaned against her again. And with her blouse open, he seemed so much closer, bigger. Sexier.
But the dangerous glimmer in his pupils warned her not to toy with the man.
She tossed her hair out of her eyes, drawing courage from someplace she hadn’t known existed. “You aren’t going to believe me.”
“Probably not.”
She expelled a long sigh. “So just let me go, and we can forget this ever happened.” Like she’d ever forget this moment. She’d probably have dreams about him for weeks. Just her luck that the most interesting man she’d ever met was probably going to turn her over to the police.
“Quit stalling. I want an explanation for your suspicious behavior.”
“Sheesh. Don’t you ever listen? I’m researching a screenplay.”
“Of course you are.”
Obviously, he didn’t believe her and that’s why he kept asking the same question. She’d learned a long time ago there was no point in arguing with stupid people because they could never see any point but their own. She didn’t know why she was explaining. Except she was scared and intrigued, and half-dressed and being held much too closely by the handsome stranger to think
clearly. But of one thing she was sure. The faster she talked, the faster he’d release her.
And she really needed him to let her go, because her body wasn’t reacting to this man as the threat he was. Oh no. Her olfactory nerves liked the scent of his spicy soap. Her traitorous eyes couldn’t seem to stop staring into his. And worst of all, beneath her padded bra—her nipples were tight and hard.
“My boss is willing to greenlight—”
“Greenlight?”
“Go ahead on my project, but first he wants certain details authenticated.”
“What kind of details?”
Since Mr. Gorgeous was still holding her hostage against the wall, she most certainly was not about to tell him that Quinn Scott had decided her thriller should have erotic elements. The famous screenwriter, director and producer had actually gone through her story and demanded that she add sex scenes—sex scenes so racy she hadn’t yet figured out how to write them. In addition, Quinn had dared her to verify that every heist and every murder could really be pulled off because he wanted reality. Demanded authentication. And then Maggie, with a twinkle in her eyes, had dared Kimberly to come up with exotic and erotic love scenes that would match the intensity of the suspense. During a phone call, Kimberly had mentioned Maggie’s suggestion to another friend, Cate, who thought the idea wonderful—easy for them to suggest from the safety of their homes.
Kimberly had started with the suspense element, making sure her plan to have her characters steal a page from the well-guarded Book of Celts would work. She still didn’t know how she was going to write all the erotic scenes the writer/producer had asked her to add to the script. Then Maggie had dared her to verify those as yet unwritten love scenes, too, and the idea warmed Kimberly straight to her toes every time she considered the idea. And she had an entire suitcase back in her hotel room packed full of sexy costumes to help her get into the mood—a suitcase she’d barely opened, except to remove the wig and padded bra.
“The script calls for the heroine to wear a special undergarment with a hidden pouch.”
“Like the one you’re wearing?” His glance dropped to her bra.
“Exactly.” She spoke boldly, as if her state of undress didn’t bother her, but a betraying blush crept up her neck and heated her cheeks.
“Let me see if I have this straight. You wrote a movie—”
“Screenplay.”
“And your boss Quinn Scott, who is almost as famous as Steven Spielberg, wants you to verify the details. And one of those details is stealing a page from the Book of Celts.”
“You get an A-plus.” She shoved against him, hoping he’d loosen his grip. He didn’t budge one inch.
“Lady—”
“Kimberly.”
“—that is the most ridiculous story I’ve ever heard. I suppose Quinn Scott will verify—”
Uh-oh. “He’s in Tahiti.”
“Maybe his secretary can—”
Double uh-oh. “He married his secretary and she’s with him.”
“So we can call them and verify your story?”
“The island is private and there are no phones.”
Even Kimberly realized how perfectly absurd her story sounded. But Quinn and Maggie had wanted to be alone, incommunicado, they’d gone to an island where no reporters could find them, where no studio emergency could interrupt their honeymoon. Kimberly figured her captor was about to march her down to the local police station, and she’d have to go through her explanation all over again. Her face flushed even hotter at the idea of having to describe to a roomful of cops that her boss had paid for her to tour Great Britain to research the theft of national treasures which required hiding them inside her padded bra.
“Look. Why don’t you check the Book of Celts? The librarian has it under lock and key. The book is undamaged. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
With no warning, the man holding her let her go.
Kimberly didn’t wait around to press her luck. She shouldered past him and sprinted to the restroom. After taking several deep breaths, she forced herself to finish her task, and change from her disguise back into Kimberly the tourist, so her fellow sightseers wouldn’t be suspicious. With shaking fingers, she removed her now-wrinkled suit, padded bra and wig.
Once she was again wearing her regular clothes, she steadied. Her nightmarish encounter no longer seemed quite so real. Mr. Pretty Blue Eyes couldn’t have been that attractive. He couldn’t have undressed her without her noticing him unfastening her buttons. She’d just been too frightened to notice.
That’s when she glanced in the mirror and took note of her flushed face and messy hair. She didn’t exactly look as though she’d just survived a tussle with a stranger. She looked like a woman who’d recently left a lover. Her eyes were dilated and her belly was tight with the aftereffects of his restraining her.
Kimberly splashed water on her face. Brushed her hair. And tried hard not to think about Mr. Perfect.
She couldn’t let the incident dissuade her from following through on her project. After years of film school and writing screenplay after screenplay while working two jobs, last year she’d finally landed a job at Simitar Studios as one of Quinn’s production assistants.
And the famous writer/director/producer had read her script and was ready to make an offer on her first sale. She was so close to success that determination washed away her fear. Somehow she would complete the job she’d come here to do—theft scenes and murder scenes would all be thoroughly checked for authenticity. The duplication needn’t be completely real. She wasn’t going to really murder or really steal—just reenact them as closely as possible. And somehow, she would have to dredge up some wonderfully exciting love scenes.
On those love scenes, Kimberly kept drawing a blank. Between Maggie and Quinn’s wedding, and all the tasks she’d had to complete before the couple had left, she’d had no time to write. She’d slept on the flight over the Atlantic and arrived too jet-lagged to focus. Okay, that was an excuse. She was putting off writing the love scenes. Although she had a vivid imagination, she couldn’t get in the right mood and hoped the new scenery would stimulate her creativity. Kimberly had no trouble writing murder and mayhem and thievery, but when it came to erotic encounters, she was at a loss. But she would not fail in her assignment.
She’d come too far, worked too hard to turn tail and run home. Lots of production assistants never got the shot she was getting. Still when she’d asked Quinn to read her script she’d never imagined she’d have to go to these kinds of extremes to sell her project. Although she’d figured out how to commit “pretend” murders and “fake” thefts, she still had no idea what to write for those hot love scenes.
A sexy lover to put her in the mood would have come in handy this summer. She dated occasionally but there was no one special in her life, so there’d been no one to ask to accompany her on this working European vacation. She spent too many hours at work to have much time for a social life. And the people she met on the set or in the office tended to be just as driven as she was.
But Kimberly didn’t regret one minute she’d spent running errands for demanding directors, reading screenplays recommended by the studio’s first readers or making sure Quinn’s latest star had the chocolate biscotti she craved with her morning latte. Hundreds of thousands of wannabe writers would give anything to be in her position, on the verge of earning six figures and seeing their script on the big screen. She ought to know: as Quinn’s production assistant, her job required her to write coverage on at least four scripts a week, most of which were okay, just not good enough to make the final cut. If not for her work as a production assistant, Kimberly would never have met Maggie or Quinn Scott. Now he’d read her script. Even though he’d requested the addition of those love scenes, Quinn wouldn’t have given her revisions or paid for this trip if he didn’t intend to produce it. She was going to make the most of the opportunity her boss had thrown her way—thanks to his new wife, Maggie.
Kimb
erly wished she could phone Maggie or Cate now, but with Maggie out of touch in Tahiti on her honeymoon and Cate always working, she couldn’t reach either of them. Maggie and Quinn weren’t even due back in L.A. until the end of the month—the time limit Quinn had given her to complete her task.
Too bad Maggie hadn’t asked her husband to assign one of Simitar Studio’s hunky male actors to accompany Kimberly and help her slip into the right frame of mind to write those love scenes—an actor like the good-looking security guard who’d felt her up? Yeah, right. Kimberly chuckled at the thought. Maggie was the one with the outrageous schemes. Thanks to Kimberly’s dare to make a major change in her life, Maggie had seduced Quinn on their very first date. Kimberly couldn’t help but wonder if Quinn’s request to add those love scenes was done at Maggie’s goading.
However, after Kimberly’s encounter with that yummy guard, her creative juices were flowing, and she envisioned the characters in her script sharing hot kisses, frenzied caresses. Even now, her pulse still hadn’t settled and she walked with an extra spring in her step, a warmth between her thighs that unnerved her. The man was a stranger and yet she’d responded to him as if…
Don’t go there.
Kimberly left the library and brought a Cornish pasty from a local bakery, hoping the hot treat would calm her. She ate the steak-and-potato and cheese delicacy as she strode down the cobblestone street and headed back to the hotel. Somewhere between her close call at the library and her discovery that a cruise ship had anchored and dropped thousands of tourists into the narrow streets of Cornwall, her urge to explore the seaside town had vanished.
One of the reasons Quinn had chosen this particular tour for her, besides the fact that it covered every city mentioned in the script, was that it gave her lots of free time to explore on her own. The group rode together by bus and van or train, a knowledgeable guide helping them along the way, but once quartered in a cozy hotel, she was free to play out the scenarios in her script uninterrupted. At least usually.
A Burning Obsession Page 2
