by Regina Kyle
“And second—” Noelle held up another finger “—you’re a big-time playwright now. You’ve got to look the part.”
Holly rolled her eyes. “I’m nowhere near big-time.”
Noelle gave her a playful smack upside the head. “Wake up and smell the success, girl! Your play’s headed for Broadway. With at least one, maybe even two major movie stars. I’d call that big-time.”
She had a point. But Holly had a hard time thinking of herself as anything other than the perennial screw-up in a family of overachievers. Her three younger siblings had each climbed their career mountains and planted their flags on top, wisely ignoring the example of their hopeless older sister. Holly had had more jobs than hairstyles, from substitute teaching to bartending to dog walking. It had become something of a family joke, guessing what she’d “explore” next. “Holly’s follies,” they called them.
The “follies” stopped a couple of years into her five-year marriage, when Clark had decided he wanted her at home, happy to greet him at the door each evening with a gin and tonic in her hand and dinner on the table. Always game, Holly had tried the new role.
Massive mistake.
Domestic goddesshood evaded her, at least in Clark’s estimation. Dinner was always overdone or underdone, the toilets never sufficiently shiny, his shirts never starched enough. Her saving grace—what made the debacle bearable—was an article in a women’s magazine about the benefits of journaling.
And thus H. N. Ryan, author, was born.
“I’ll believe it when I see the marquee go up.” A healthy chunk of her still doubted that would ever happen. There were too many ways things could crash and burn in high def. “Until then...”
“Honestly, Holls.” Noelle pushed a strand of long blond hair, so different from Holly’s, behind one ear. “You worry too much. You said the producers signed Malcolm Justice to play the cop, right?”
Holly nodded and sat up fully.
“And this new guy? The one who’s reading for you today?” Noelle turned away from Holly to the selection of shoes she had lined up at the foot of the bed. Holly groaned inwardly. Not one of them had a heel less than four inches.
“No clue. All Ethan would say is that he’s a grade-A film star and major heartthrob.”
Which was strange, Holly thought. They never kept secrets. Ethan Phelps had been her best friend since their freshman year at Wesleyan when she’d helped him conquer Chaucer and Dickens. He’d rewarded her with the irritating nickname “Hollypop,” a name he unfortunately still insisted on using.
When her agent told her that The Lesser Vessel had been optioned for Broadway, her second thought—after Are you drunk?—was whether they’d consider Ethan to direct. Fortunately, the producers loved his regional-theater work.
“What if it’s George Clooney?” Noelle froze, her ballerina’s feet in a pensive third position. “Or Tom Cruise?”
Holly shook her head. “Too old. And too...Tom Cruise.”
“Ooh, how about Nick Damone?” Holly almost choked on her tongue, but Noelle, who had moved on to a collection of jewelry spread across the dresser, didn’t seem to notice. “You could finally do something about that crush you had on him in high school.”
“What do you mean?”
“Please, Holls. Give me some credit.”
“But you were ten.” And all this time she thought Ethan was the only one who knew. She’d confessed her long-ago crush on the now-famous movie star one night shortly after her divorce was final, an aftereffect of too many rum and Cokes.
But she’d never told anyone—not even Ethan—that she was the one who’d convinced Nick to ditch his football scholarship and go to New York, or that he’d kissed her that night at the cast party. Her first kiss, and no other boy had come close to making her heart race and her insides quiver the way Nick had. Of course, that magic moment had ended all too soon when Jessie Pagano came looking for her camera. Right. With one crook of her perfectly manicured finger she’d lured Nick away like a pied piper in do-me heels.
Ethan and Noelle would have never let her live that down. So Holly resorted to the safest tactic she knew: deny, deny, deny. “What did you know about crushes? I do not, did not, have a thing for Nick Damone.”
“Then why are you blushing like a virgin at a strip club?”
“I am not blushing!” Holly covered her face with her hands. Crap. Her sister was right. Her cheeks felt as hot as the pottery kiln she’d bought during what her family referred to as her “terra-cotta phase.”
“It’s no big deal. I’ve got a thing for Ryan Gosling. Seven minutes alone with that man in a closet and I’d definitely be in heaven.”
“Thing or no thing, it doesn’t matter. According to Variety, Nick’s still in Hong Kong shooting the new Trent Savage flick.”
“Well, whoever your mystery movie star is, you need these to close the deal.” Noelle picked up a pair of silver peep-toe sling backs and dangled them from her fingertips. “Christian Louboutin.”
As if that meant anything to Holly. “No way.”
Noelle smiled with far more wicked intent than any woman wanted to see in her baby sister. “You have to. Guys think they’re sexy.”
“I’m shooting for professional, not sexy.” Holly went to her closet and pulled out a pair of simple, low black pumps, the only pair of heels she owned. Practically new, since she barely wore them. She shoved them on. “These are more my speed.”
“Oh, well. Can’t blame a girl for trying.” Noelle tossed the Louboutins aside, bent down and rummaged around in her Gucci carry-on, pulling out a thick black belt. “Just a couple of final touches.”
She fastened the belt around Holly’s waist, centering the large oval buckle, then handed her a pair of garnet studs and a matching necklace from the bureau. “Now you’re ready to kick ass and take names. And if it’s—please, God—Ryan Gosling, call me and don’t let him out the door before I get there.”
Half an hour later, Holly paced outside the Film Center Building on Ninth Avenue, hitting Redial on her cell phone again. And again. And again. “Come on, Ethan! Pick up, dammit! Where are you?”
“Right behind you, Hollypop.”
She jumped and spun around, teetering until Ethan grabbed her by the arms and steadied her. “Ethan, you scared me! And you’re late. And you know I hate that nickname.”
He gave her a kiss on the forehead and released her. “Aw, don’t be mad, Holls. That frown doesn’t go with the fabulous getup you’re rocking.”
“You know I can never stay mad at you.” She returned his kiss with a peck on the cheek.
A trace of something like regret flashed across Ethan’s face. “Tell me that again in a few minutes,” he muttered, then changed the subject. “Nice duds. Did you take my advice and call Noelle?”
She nodded and glanced down at the hint of cleavage just visible in the folds of her sister’s blouse. “You think it’s okay? Not too much?”
“Better than okay. And definitely not too much.” He took her elbow and steered her to the door. “Now, let’s get this party started.”
They whipped past the doorman, through the lobby and into the elevator. “What’s with all the mystery, Ethan? You planning on telling me who’s upstairs waiting for us?”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He shuffled his feet and punched the button for the fourteenth floor twice more.
“Why so nervous? We’ve been auditioning big-name stars for weeks. Even hired one of them.”
“Not like this.” The elevator dinged and Ethan motioned for her to precede him out. “Let’s just say if we sign this guy it’ll be the biggest news to hit the Great White Way since Hugh Jackman and Daniel Craig in A Steady Rain.”
Holly paused at the familiar door to the offices of Broadway producers Ted and Judith Aaronson. “I’d faint if it was one of them.”
“It’s not. But you just might faint anyway.”
“Promise you’ll catch me if I do.” She reached for the doorknob,
but he stopped her with a hand on her wrist, his soft gray eyes serious.
“Sure, if you promise me something in return.”
“As long as it doesn’t involve anything illegal, immoral or fattening.”
“Whatever happens in there, promise you won’t hate me.”
“Hate you? Why would I hate you?” She shook his hand off, her stomach knotting up like a ball of yarn. “You’re freaking me out, Ethan. Who’s waiting for us in there? The pope? Jimmy Hoffa? My ex-mother-in-law?”
Before he could answer, the door fell open with a whoosh.
“Here they are!” Ted opened the door wider, ushering them inside. “Our esteemed writer and director.” He brought them into a conference room where Judith and several others were seated in tapestry chairs around an enormous walnut table. One man stood apart, his back to the door, apparently engrossed in one of the framed photos of the New York skyline that dotted the walls. Black hair curled over the collar of his cream-colored dress shirt, which hugged his broad shoulders and displayed strong forearms beneath rolled-up sleeves.
No. It couldn’t be him. He was supposed to be on a movie set overseas...
“Holly Ryan, Ethan Phelps,” Ted boomed, earning him a stern look from his wife. He either ignored or missed it and continued, not lowering his voice one decibel. “Say hello to our new star, straight from the silver screen.”
The man turned and Holly knew from his slack-jawed expression that he was as shocked as she was.
Nick.
He moved toward her like a tidal wave of gorgeous in an ocean of ohmigod. “It’s been a long time, Holly.” Tall, dark and to-die-for, he held out his hand. His voice, deep and rough, made her breath catch and her nipples tighten. She crossed her arms in front of her chest to hide her unfortunate and completely involuntary reaction to the man who had starred in her erotic dreams since—well, since she’d been old enough to have erotic dreams.
“Nick. I thought you were in Hong Kong.” She stood, feet planted, afraid if she got any nearer to him she’d dissolve into a pool of fiery, lust-ridden goo.
“Been keeping up with me?” He dropped his hand when she didn’t move to take it, slipping it casually into the front pocket of his jeans. “I’m flattered.”
“It’s hard not to. You’re everywhere.”
“Ethan didn’t tell you?” Ted stepped in, smile lines further crinkling his already wrinkled face, and clapped the director on the shoulder. Ethan gave him a warning glare, but the older man, either truly oblivious or deliberately ignorant, ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and continued, “He insisted we see Nick for this role, that he’d be perfect as our modern-day Stanley Kowalski. Even convinced us to put off casting until he finished shooting.”
“Perfect,” Holly echoed, her blood closely approaching the boiling point.
A bead of sweat trickled down Ethan’s forehead and his Adam’s apple did a nervous dance in his throat. “Surprise.”
3
NICK OWED ETHAN PHELPS one hell of an expensive bottle of Scotch. He didn’t know why, but thanks to Phelps he was face-to-face with Holly Nelson. His teenage fantasy, all grown up.
Unfortunately, his teenage fantasy didn’t seem to want anything to do with him. Instead, she dragged the director into a corner where they conversed in hushed tones. Nick caught comments like “what the hell were you thinking” and “not in this lifetime.”
Looked as if he wasn’t the only one knocked for a loop by their little reunion. Too bad he was the only one happy about it.
Nick took advantage of Holly’s distraction to look at her. Really look at her. She was dressed a bit more provocatively than she used to. Wearing more makeup, too. And her hair was different, all spiky and brushed to one side.
The soft, sweet curve of her breasts peeked from the low-cut neckline of her blouse, but under the designer clothes and makeup was the girl he remembered. She’d filled out, of course, and in all the right places. But it was still Holly, with those piercing green eyes.
She stabbed a finger at Ethan’s chest to make some particularly passionate point. The movement thrust those delectable breasts out farther.
Oh, yeah. She’d grown up, all right. But what was she doing here? She seemed awfully familiar with the director. His assistant, maybe?
He eased himself into a chair and reached for the pitcher of ice water at the center of the table. As he did, the cover of his script, and the name of the author inscribed across it, caught his eye.
H. N. Ryan.
And then it hit him. Ted had introduced her as Holly Ryan. Holly was the playwright. Holly Nelson Ryan.
“Why don’t we all sit down and get things rolling.” Judith’s sharp Brooklyn accent jolted Nick back to the conference room. “Colleen,” she continued, turning to a pretty blonde lurking by the door, “why don’t you get Holly a copy of the script. She can—”
“Read the role of the wife,” Ted finished for Judith. She frowned and pulled out a chair at the end of the table, as far from her husband as possible. “Wonderful.”
“Of course.” The blonde disappeared momentarily, then returned with script in hand. “Here you are, Mrs. Ryan.”
Shit.
She was married. Sweet little Holly Nelson, the object of some of his hottest adolescent fantasies, was Mrs. Holly Ryan. Wife. Playwright. Maybe even mother.
Tony award and Spielberg film be damned, there was no way in hell he could work side by side with Holly for months on end, all the while silently lusting after her. Or maybe not so silently, he thought. He watched her smile as she took the script from Colleen, the tip of her tongue darting out to swipe her lips. He bit back a groan at the unconsciously erotic gesture.
This play already had two strikes against it as far as Nick was concerned. He hadn’t been onstage in years, and he had dyslexia. He’d need to be completely focused to pull it off. No distractions. And Holly had distraction written all over her—untouchable, unattainable distraction.
He eyed Garrett sitting next to him. There was no way around it. His agent would have to learn to live with the disappointment.
“Nick.” Ethan took a seat across the table. “I understand you and Holly go way back.” Ethan winced and frowned at Holly in the chair to his left. She returned his grimace with a smirk, and Nick was pretty sure she’d just kicked the director under the table. What exactly was their relationship, anyway?
“Yes. We grew up together in Stockton, Connecticut.” The big dumb jock and the cute little honors student. “Just outside New Haven.”
“Well,” Ted said. “That makes this even better.” He paused and looked around the table for dramatic effect. “Let’s start with act one, scene two, the argument at the dinner table.”
Holly’s face reddened and she ducked her head, frantically turning the pages of her script. “Of course.”
Fuck. Getting out of this was going to be harder than he thought.
“Actually, Ted, I—”
“Nick,” Garrett interrupted, glaring at him, “would be happy to—”
“What I’m trying to say,” Nick said, glaring right back, “is that I’m sorry I wasted your time, but I don’t think this project’s right for me.” He stood, leaving his script on the table, and risked one last glance at Holly. Damn, she looked fine. Good enough to eat, starting with those lush lips and working his way down, inch by glorious inch. “It was nice seeing you, Holly. Good luck with...everything.”
He strode to the door, barely registering Garrett’s song and dance of apologies in the wake of his startling announcement. The guy was a hustler, he’d give him that. But no amount of hustling was going to change Nick’s mind. He’d just have to find another way to redefine his career and impress Spielberg. One that didn’t involve the very diverting—and very married—Holly Nelson Ryan.
* * *
“NO, NO, A THOUSAND times no!” Holly paced the length of the conference room, now empty except for her and Ethan.
He leaned forward in
his chair, elbows on the table, hands steepled under his chin. “You heard Ted and Judith. No Nick, no show. They’ve got a group of private investors lined up, but before they cough up any dough they want to see Nick signed on the dotted line.”
“Why Nick?” Holly whined, still pacing. “Can’t we just get another star?”
Ethan lifted a shoulder. “Guess my sales pitch was a little too convincing.”
“Then why me?” She couldn’t do what they were asking. It was too risky. “Why can’t you persuade him? You brought him here. Or Ted? Or Judith?”
Ethan raised an eyebrow. “Because Nick wasn’t looking at me or Ted or Judith like he wanted to throw us onto the conference table and go all caveman.”
That stopped Holly in her tracks. “You are majorly delusional. He barely glanced my way.”
She, on the other hand, hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him from the moment she’d walked in the door. His presence had seemed to take up the whole room. She’d seen one or two of his movies. Okay, she’d seen them all multiple times, and owned the DVDs. But that hadn’t even remotely prepared her for Nick Damone, live, in person and sexy as sin.
He had those mocha eyes, as dark and smoky as she remembered but even more intense, more penetrating. When she was able to break free from their strange, hypnotic spell, her addled brain registered a scraggly beard and moustache, probably grown for his last picture. Sprinkled with silver, they highlighted his strong jaw, making him appear, if possible, even more masculine. One lock of hair had flopped temptingly across his brow, and she’d longed to reach up—way up, given the difference in their heights—and brush it back.
And that was just his face. As for his body...
Yowza.
He’d always been tall, but the lean, athletic boy she remembered had filled out and become a hard, muscular, mouthwateringly beautiful man. His dress shirt clung to his biceps and broad chest, falling loosely over what she knew must be washboard abs. Well-worn jeans rode low on his hips and molded to his powerful thighs and taut, trim butt. She’d tried—but failed—not to notice how they cupped certain other areas as well.
