She was on the verge of screaming when a deep, familiar voice whispered, "It's only me."
"Kenzie?" Her heart was hammering so hard that she couldn't even manage anger over his intrusion. "What are you doing here?"
Soundlessly he crossed the room to her canopied bed, his taut face and figure faintly limned by moonlight. The mattress sagged as he sat next to her. She was about to ask what on earth he was doing when his questing hand touched her face. His fingers were cold as death.
She had a sharp memory of his appearance after the last take of the day. Whatever he'd done in the hours since had not improved his state. She slid her arms around his chest and pulled him onto the bed beside her. His whole body was shaking and chilled.
Wondering if he was coming down with some illness, she cradled him as if he were a hurt child. He released his breath in a long exhalation and buried his head between her neck and shoulder. She realized he wasn't here for talk or romance, but the basic human comfort of touch.
She tugged the edge of the duvet out from under his weight, flipped the soft covering over him, then enfolded him in her arms again. Between the cocoon of the duvet and her own body heat radiating through the sheets, he gradually warmed up, his tense body relaxing. His breathing became slow and regular, and eventually he slept.
It was ironic that she was doing the soothing. In the past, Kenzie had been the relaxed one who would calm her when she was wound up. But this movie was clearly stirring up the most hidden depths of his personality.
Bleakly she wished that her passion to direct had fastened on a different project. One with no role for Kenzie.
Though she'd been prepared to meet the price of her ambition, she hadn't realized that he would end up paying it for her.
* * *
She was wakened by Kenzie's stealthy attempt to slide from the bed. She glanced at her bedside clock. Sunrise came early in an English summer, and it would be almost two hours before her day officially began. "Wait a minute, buddy." She caught his wrist, using a line from a thriller they'd made together. "Think I'm some kinda one-night stand?"
He smiled a little. "I was hoping if I left quietly, you'd forget I was ever here."
"Not likely when you scared me out of a year's growth." She settled back on her pillow, studying his face. He needed a shave, but he looked almost normal again. "How did you get in? I distinctly remember locking the door last night."
His gaze shifted. "It's not a very complicated lock."
"Don't tell me—you made that movie where you were a gentleman burglar and you learned breaking and entering."
"One should never turn down the chance to acquire new skills."
She felt a touch of envy. She'd never gotten beyond picking a cheap padlock with a hairpin. Children were natural criminals, she suspected. "Are you feeling okay now? You looked like death walking last night."
"If anyone ever offers me the kind of role that wins Oscars again, I'll slam the door in his face."
She winced. "I'm truly sorry. I had no idea how hard this would be."
"Shooting will be over in a fortnight. I should be able to last that long." He sat up, his gaze flicking to her bare shoulders and away again. Dropping into Victorian gentleman mode, he said, "I'd best be gone before I ruin your reputation, my dear lady."
She laid her hand over his. "I don't think it can ruin a wife's reputation if her husband is seen leaving her room."
He didn't move. "For us, the issue isn't reputation, but gossip columnists."
Not to mention their ability to wound each other emotionally. Yet she couldn't bear the thought of him leaving so soon. "It would be a waste to have the sexiest man in the world in my bed, and not do anything about it."
He tensed, his gaze traveling the length of her sheet-covered body. "Are you offering a medicinal fuck to keep me from falling apart?"
She flushed violently and rolled away from him, curling into a knot on her side. "What a rotten thing to say! If that's how you feel, get out."
He swore and lay down beside her, wrapping his arm around her waist to tuck her against the front of his body. "I'm really sorry, Rainey. Last night I... asked you for more than I should have. We've already had two incidents that didn't officially happen. Three would be pushing it." His voice became dry. "Especially if your motive is charity. I don't have a lot of pride, but I have enough not to want that."
"What makes you think my suggestion was about you?" She swallowed the lump in her throat. "Even tough little chicks can use some tenderness now and then. Unless... you really don't want to."
"Don't want to?" He exhaled against her nape, his breath warm and intimate. Then he kissed the juncture of her throat and shoulder in precisely the right point to send sensation blazing through her. "For a clever woman, you can be rather foolish."
He turned her onto her back and drew the sheet down to her waist. She was intensely, erotically aware that she was naked while he was fully dressed.
"You make an exquisite Eos, goddess of the dawn, all luminous skin and hair the color of sunrise." He began unbuttoning his shirt. "I'm glad to see that you haven't developed the unsightly habit of wearing a nightgown."
Suddenly giddy with anticipation, she attacked the zipper of his slacks. "That's because it's summer. If it were winter, I'd be wearing heavy flannel from ankles to chin."
"Then let us celebrate summer." He stood and stripped off his clothing.
She wished he'd undress more slowly, because she loved looking at his strong, beautifully proportioned body. Yet even more she wanted him with her. Eagerly she reached out when he joined her on the bed, as ready and hungry as she.
Unlike the intense, searingly passionate way they'd come together in New Mexico and at the labyrinth, their dawn lovemaking had a playfulness that she hadn't experienced in far too long. Once, they'd always made love with laughter....
Not that passion was lacking, for Kenzie was the most generous of lovers. He also had the most sensual, skilled mouth in creation, a fact he demonstrated until she forgot the movie, the divorce, the guilt, and soared with joy and fulfillment. There was equal joy in returning the gift he gave her, drowning him in sensation until, for a handful of moments, he soared as freely as she.
Afterward she lay contentedly in his arms, listening to the beat of his heart and trying to pretend the clock wasn't ticking with equal regularity. How could they be so close, physically and, she'd swear, emotionally, yet be in the middle of a divorce?
Because he didn't want to stay married. Not once had he opposed the divorce, asked for forgiveness, or suggested that there was any reason to stay together. He'd said he wasn't suited for marriage, and apparently that was his final word on the subject.
Hearing her sigh, Kenzie murmured, "I presume that this morning is another one of those things that hasn't happened?'
"Denial is getting pretty silly, isn't it?" She rolled onto her back and stared at the ruffled canopy of the outrageously romantic bed, assessing the lava flow of pain that pulsed beneath her contentment. "I prefer keeping what happens between us private, but... well, as you said, it's only two weeks until the end of production. Obviously sleeping together makes us both feel a whole lot more relaxed and happy, at least in the short-term."
"And in the long-term?" His voice was neutral.
The lava would erupt into a volcano and burn her to her bones again, but that would happen no matter what they did during the next two weeks. "We'll go our separate ways when shooting ends, which will be... difficult, but no worse if we sleep together than if we don't. That being the case, the cost-benefit analysis favors continuing to sneak around and see each other." She darted a glance at him. "What do you think?"
"Cost-benefit analysis? What a very cold way of saying that we're happier together, and we'll probably work better for it." He smiled a little wistfully. "Our terms may be different, but we seem to be in agreement. Sneaking around it is."
She snuggled closer, knowing that later she would pay big-time for thes
e two weeks of intimacy. But she'd enjoy herself while it lasted, perhaps find a sense of closure. The agonizing rupture after she'd discovered him with another woman had been too abrupt, the wound too raw to heal.
Remembering him with Angie Greene made her shudder. Noticing, he said softly, "Second thoughts, Rainey?"
Not wanting to think of his unfaithfulness during these golden moments, she offered a different truth. "I thought of Sarah, which made me twitch. I still haven't got a handle on her. If I don't soon, it will be too late."
"Maybe you should get out of the way and let Sarah take over," he suggested.
"Very zenlike. Can you be more specific?"
"You probably know Sarah inside out, but you're still not comfortable with her. I don't think you like her very much."
Rainey started to protest, then stopped. "You may be right. I love John Randall because his problems and struggle to heal touch universal chords, but so much of Sarah seems specific to her own restricted time and place. I have trouble getting into her because the world is so much different now."
"She's loyal and loving, and those qualities are as universal as Randall's. It's interesting that you can relate to his pain more easily than her virtues."
If Rainey were a cat, her fur would be bristling. "She's a young woman with potential who is trapped in a world that gives her almost no choices! This benefits Randall, but I still feel sorry for her."
"Much harder to live in a time where divorce was almost impossible. How fortunate you are to be able to walk away from an unsatisfactory marriage, unlike Sarah."
Recognizing that they were on thin ice, she made herself step aside and study her reaction, as if she were learning a new character. "Maybe Sarah's situation makes me think of the years when I lived with my grandparents and felt so powerless."
"I can see why that would get in your way, but remember, Sarah likes herself and her situation very well. One of the things that makes her special is that she's completely comfortable with her place in life. Because she's working from a secure center, she can offer Randall strength and stability."
"You've really thought a lot about her, haven't you?"
"Of course. She's the lifeline for my character, and I need to know why."
Kenzie had always been terrific at figuring out characters.
She'd missed the intense discussions they used to have. Especially since those talks often took place in bed. "Any suggestions for how to come to terms with Sarah?"
He frowned at the canopy overhead. "Why not put yourself back into the most secure time in your life, and work from there?"
"There were no secure times."
He laid a gentle hand on her bare midriff. "That's a drawback. You'll have to build her out of pure craftsmanship."
"A lot of help you are!"
He grinned. "Time for a return to Drama 101. What's Sarah's secret?"
A profound secret that the character would never reveal to anyone was often a key to the character's personality, and added depth and a sense of mystery. "You know, I've never thought of a secret for Sarah. A sign of my distance from her."
"Find one," he suggested. "Maybe then you'll connect with her."
What shameful secret might honest, naive Sarah Masterson be concealing?
The answer struck like a thunderbolt: Under that innocence, Sarah was deeply, physically passionate in a time and place where women were supposed to be demure, sexless "ladies." Sarah knew that about herself, and the realization shamed her.
She didn't love Randall just for his noble profile and heroic exploits, but for his virility and beautiful body. She'd instinctively recognized that he was a man who might match her in passion. That call of the blood gave an intensity to her love.
Even though their marriage hadn't yet been consummated, she believed to her marrow that they belonged together. And she didn't dare let anyone, even Randall, know about her wanton nature for fear they'd despise her.
Her pulse accelerated. "By George, I think I've got it. Sarah's secret."
"And it is...?"
"If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret."
"Maybe I can persuade you." He pounced, kissing and caressing and murmuring against her breast in a menacing growl, "Tell me her dark secret, or I'll drive you mad."
"I'll show you madness!" Laughing, she rolled him onto his back and pinned him to the bed with her hands and knees before nibbling her way down his body. The laughter bound them together as surely as passion, until levity vanished in hot urgency.
After total meltdown, she lay panting in his arms. Don't think that soon this will be over. Think about the two whole weeks you have left.
After a luscious, lazy interval, Kenzie kissed her temple, then climbed from the bed and started to dress. "Time I crept back across the hallway."
Reluctantly she also rose and drew on her bathrobe. "I did some rewriting on a couple of your later scenes. I'll print out the pages and get them to you today." After he nodded, she asked, "With your dyslexia, is it hard to learn new dialogue?"
His hands froze on his belt buckle. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're dyslexic, aren't you? I've always assumed so."
He fastened the belt, the leather snapping like a weapon. "Why do you say that?"
"You have trouble with right and left, you reverse things, you don't read easily, and your spelling can be pretty creative." She regarded him uneasily. "Was I wrong to assume dyslexia, or is this one of those topics you really, really don't want to talk about?"
His expression became fractionally less taut. "Both. I thought I'd done rather a good job of concealing my difficulties. Does everyone know?"
"I doubt it. You compensate beautifully. I was just in a position to notice more." She'd noticed everything about him for more than three years.
He drifted to the window and stared out, shoving his hands into his back pockets. "I was quite hopeless as a child. Probably retarded. Certainly worthless."
The flat words chilled her. Though she'd figured out that he was dyslexic fairly early, she hadn't realized how profoundly the condition had affected his life. "England is a civilized country, and dyslexia has been well understood for years. Why weren't you diagnosed when you started school?"
He shrugged. "Britons aren't quite as keen on slapping labels on children. Plus, there were... other circumstances."
Such as having a very traditional family that didn't believe some children's brains were wired a little differently than others? No wonder he was surprisingly lacking in arrogance. He wasn't reserved and unassuming because he was "an English gentleman," but because it was difficult to develop arrogance after years of being treated as stupid. "I assume that eventually a good teacher figured out what was wrong."
"Yes. Luckily, intensive work can do a great deal to compensate for learning disabilities. But it doesn't cure them, of course."
Nor did it eliminate the years of shame he'd suffered. Looking for a silver lining, she said, "It's probably helped your acting. You have a phenomenal memory, not to mention perfect pitch for accents. And your discipline. You're about the best prepared actor I've ever met, and I suspect that was another way of compensating."
He nodded, still staring out the window. "It's amazing how clever one can become at hiding one's flaws."
"Dyslexia isn't that big a deal, Kenzie. I've had several friends with varying degrees of dyslexia. I sometimes scramble things myself. It seems to go with creativity, which you certainly have in spades."
"I'm glad it's no big deal to you," he said quietly.
But it obviously was to him. "Okay, subject closed. I won't mention it again."
"I'd appreciate that." He turned from the window. "I'd also prefer this didn't become common knowledge."
She tried to make a joke of it. "Telling the tabloids that Kenzie Scott went to bed with three women and an Angora goat would be news. A learning disability wouldn't interest anyone.
"If you're telling tales to tabloids, go with the orgy. It would be le
ss uncomfortable." He left the room, closing the door behind him with unnerving care.
She tightened her robe around her, feeling depressed. Whoever had convinced Kenzie he was a worthless child deserved to be shot—and despite her pacifist leanings, she'd be happy to load the gun.
* * *
Kenzie's call wasn't until after lunch, so he showered and ate—the night with Rainey had done wonders for his appetite—then drove to Morchard House and walked through the gardens to the labyrinth. It had helped him before, maybe it would today.
Discovering that Rainey had recognized his dyslexia made him feel like a turtle whose shell had been ripped off. Intellectually, he knew his reaction was foolish. Learning disabilities were not uncommon. Many well-known people had gone public with their own struggles.
But he'd never wanted to be a spokesman for a cause, nor could he be detached about a condition that had shaped his childhood with the harsh finality of an ax. Even with Rainey, he'd felt gut-level fear when his weakness was casually mentioned.
If he'd had a normally designed brain, his childhood would almost certainly not have been the Dickensian horror that he'd barely survived. But his brain wasn't normal, and as a child he hadn't known how to conceal that. Thoroughly convinced of his worthlessness, he'd never looked for a way out, because it hadn't occurred to him that escape was possible. Mutely he'd done what he was told, and been dragged into an abyss that left him irrevocably scarred.
Movies and radio had saved him. Though he didn't master the written word until years later, as a boy he'd loved listening to beautiful language. He'd been nine when he first heard a Shakespearean play performed on the radio. The rich, seductive power of The Tempest had taken him away from what he was doing, and what was being done to him.
While language was wonderful, the combination of word and image in the movies had been pure magic. Film had taken him to new worlds, created sanctuaries in his mind where he could withdraw from the sordid reality of his life.
He'd been very lucky to receive patient, intensive instruction while he was still young enough to benefit by it, but reading was still too much work to do for pleasure. He envied Rainey's ability to become totally lost in a good book. His undeserved reputation for being literate and well-read was a result of the countless audio books he'd listened to during the boring intervals of filming or while he was exercising.
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