Strokes of Midnight

by Tarr, Hope

  Pulling back to look down at her, he prayed he wouldn’t do or say anything to wreck his already slender chances. “I love you, Becka. I don’t know what that jerk did to make you this way, but I’m going to find a way to break down that goddamned wall you’ve built up around yourself if it’s the last thing I do.”

  She lifted haunted eyes to his face. “I can’t let myself love you or anybody right now. I’m sorry but I just can’t. Somebody did hurt me, really badly, and I can’t risk letting that happen again. I want to believe that you’re different, that we’re different, but I just don’t know how to tell for sure.”

  Max pulled her closer, willing her to melt into him. “This is the real thing. I know it. I can feel it. All you have to do is let go and let yourself love me back. Let go, Becka. I’ll be here to catch you, I promise.”

  Holding her flush against his chest, he could feel the tension in every rigid muscle. To hell with the book. If need be, he’d set aside the day and make love to her until she not only saw how much he loved her but felt it, too.

  Mouth pressed to her ear, he said, “I’m not going to hurt you, Becka, and I’m not going to walk away, no matter how hard you push me. Let me love you, Becka. Give me a shot at least. If I screw up, at least it’s my screwup and not payback for some other guy’s mistakes.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.” She shoved against his chest with both hands.

  He dropped his arms to his sides. “Becka, wait.”

  Shaking her head, she backed away toward the door. Reaching it, she turned and tore out of the room. It took all Max’s force of will not to go after her. In the back of his mind, he remembered an old saying, a favorite of Elaina’s.

  If you love something set it free. If it comes back, it’s yours. If it doesn’t, it never was. Standing in the middle of the study, he asked himself how something as beautiful and basic to human nature as loving someone could be so complicated, so hard.

  * * *

  Rental-car keys in hand, Becky got as far as the gravel lot before the episode in the study sank in. She swung around to look back up at the house—Max’s house. Over the past weeks it had become more of a home to her than she’d ever had before, and not because she liked big, sprawling rooms with timbered ceilings and pine paneling.

  Max loved her. He’d said so, not only with his mouth but with his beautiful blue eyes—tender, earnest, loving. Max loved her. And, she saw with thunderbolt clarity, she loved him back. Loving him wasn’t something she had to work on. It wasn’t something she had to try harder to do. She loved him, she just did, and every error in judgment she’d ever made in the past, Elliot included, paled in comparison to the blazing brilliance of that beautifully simple fact. Her sexy Prince Charming from midtown hadn’t just captured her heart. He’d made her trust in love again, and beyond that, in herself.

  Retracing her steps up the path, she wondered what he must think of her—emotional basket case, high-maintenance lay or psycho girlfriend? Given the way she’d run for the hills, she wouldn’t blame him if he told her to just forget it. There was only one way to find out.

  Inside the house, she didn’t bother with hanging up her coat. Walking into the study, she stopped in the doorway, one foot inside, the other still in the hallway, a fitting metaphor for how she’d approached their relationship until now.

  Max sat on the side of the sofa. He looked up, his eyes holding a silent question.

  Hands shoved in her coat pockets, Becky hesitated. She’d never been good with talking about her emotions and since the Elliot episode she’d bottled up her feelings even tighter. But looking into the twin pools of Max’s weary blue eyes, she told herself that this time, with this man, it was okay—safe—to let go and fall in.

  “I love you, too.”

  His eyes widened and then brightened. “Wow, you romance writers don’t waste time with lead-ins or segues, do you?” He got up and started toward her.

  Becky reached out a hand to hold him off. “Before you say anything more, you need to know what you’re getting into.”

  He halted in midstep, expression turning wary. “All right. It’s not going to change a damned thing, at least not on my end, but go on.”

  She bowed her head, unsure of where to begin, or even how. “His name is Elliot Marsh.”

  Becky stopped to swallow back the lump building in her throat. This was hard, so hard, but not because she was still in love with Elliot. She wasn’t, she knew now. But looking into Max’s face and seeing the honest love shining forth from his clear blue eyes, it hurt to think she’d once been willing, make that desperate enough, to settle for so very much less.

  Clearing her throat, she continued, “I met him through a friend at the consulting firm in D.C. where I worked. He’s a media consultant for a major television network now, but he used to work for the Feds. He comes into Washington once or twice a month, or at least he used to. There was a spark between us and he was, well, very complimentary.” Now that she’d taken the lid off her personal Pandora’s Box, she couldn’t seem to stop the bottled-up feelings from spilling out. “We had this amazing weekend—well, more like an amazing thirty-six hours—and I thought, ‘This is it, what I’ve been searching for all my adult life, romance like I’d dreamed about ever since I read my first Gothic novel in middle school.’”

  He kept his distance, but his gaze held hers. “He played you, led you on.” It wasn’t a question.

  She hesitated. “Looking back, it was more like I led me on.”

  Wow, another revelation. Until now, she’d chalked the episode up to poor judgment. Now she saw that her need to feel loved, to feel special rather than lost in the crowd, had been a big part of it, too.

  “There were plenty of signs from the beginning. I just didn’t want to see them. He asked me to move out to L.A. with him and said I should start thinking about what kind of engagement ring I wanted and whether to get married on the east coast or the west. I even let him talk me into quitting my consulting job. He said if I wanted to make it as a writer, I had to really focus on my craft. He certainly acted like he was willing to support us both.”

  He stood and crossed the carpet toward her. “What happened?”

  “He dumped me. No Dear Jane e-mail or phone call or any explanation. One day he just showed up in D.C. at what had been our favorite restaurant with a twentysomething blonde on his arm. I guess he decided it was time to trade up.”

  “Not up but down.” He took a step toward her and reached for her hands. “You’re a knockout, Becka. Any man with half a brain would be proud to be with you. I know I am. You’re also funny and smart and talented and kind. Anyone who can’t see that must have blinders on—and that includes you. As for Elliot, I don’t know what his problem was. Personally, I’ve always had a thing for grown-up women. I’m just weird that way.” He lifted her chin with the edge of his hand.

  “I like that you’re weird that way. I more than like it. I meant what I said. I really love you, Max.”

  Now that she’d put herself out there and said it, really said it, the sense of relief was enormous. Tears filled her eyes and spilled over to trickle down her cheeks.

  Gaze tender, Max swiped the pad of his thumb over the wetness. “After Elaina died, I thought I could never love someone again.”

  “And now?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Elaina will always hold a very special place in my memory and my heart, but my time with her is in the past. My present and my future are with you.”

  Becky felt as though she’d stepped inside a romance novel or better yet, a fairy tale, only the love in Max’s eyes when he looked into hers was one-hundred-percent real. She launched herself into his arms, wrapping hers about him as tightly as she could. “Oh, Max, I’ve loved you ever since I fell head over heels for you on that sidewalk in midtown—even before you rescued my shoe. I just didn’t trust myself to believe it before. I was so afraid of messing up again and getting hurt.”

  “What about now?”

/>   She lifted her head from his chest and looked up at him. Her gaze met his and she steeled herself to take that age-old leap of faith, trusting that he would be waiting on the other side to catch her. “It’s taken me a while to get there, but I can finally trust myself to know a good thing, and a good man, when I see him—and I’m looking at him right now.”

  “In that case, Cinderella, shut up and kiss me.”

  Max leaned in and covered her mouth with his. His lips, soft and gentle, brushed over hers, his tongue sliding between her parted lips to touch hers. Though they’d kissed countless times before, somehow this felt like the very first.

  Holding her face between his hands, he ended the kiss. Smiling down at her, he asked, “You know what I want to do right now?”

  Feeling breathless and light-headed as any storybook princess kissed awake by her Prince Charming after a centuries-long sleep, Becky shook her head. “I could probably guess, but tell me.”

  His smile broadened into a grin. “I want to take you upstairs and take your clothes off piece by piece and make love to you as slowly and as sweetly as either of us can stand. How does that sound to you?”

  “Like a sexy fairy tale come true.” She glanced over to the computer, their current chapter filling the monitor. “But can we spare the time? We did leave Drake and Angelina in kind of a bind.”

  “Let them figure it out for themselves. They need to learn to be more independent, anyway.” Taking her face between his hands, he leaned in. “Right now, I’m all about the muse.”

  Chapter 12

  Drake swung one leg over the side of the camp bed. He had one foot on the dirt-packed floor when Angelina called him back. “Lie here and be still with me.”

  They’d been on a near death march for days now, stopping only long enough to snatch a few hours of sleep before dawn broke again. The success of their mission depended on their reaching Toro Toro in the next twenty-four hours, recovering the stolen plans, and getting the hell out of there.

  Thinking he must have misheard her, Drake looked over his shoulder and asked, “Come again?”

  Angelina swallowed hard, the ripple traveling along the elegant column of her bare throat. “We can carry on with the business of conquering evil and reclaiming the stolen missile plans and saving the free world in another moment or so. For now, though, just lie here and be still with me.”

  * * *

  Facing each other in Max’s bed, Max carried Becky’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the sensitive spot inside her wrist, smiling when she shivered. She had more erogenous zones than any woman he’d ever known—and he didn’t think he’d ever get tired of hunting for more.

  But unfortunately they had a book to finish. With regret, he reached to pull the covers down and get up. “We should probably get back to our characters. Time’s running out for them and us.”

  Throwing a shapely leg possessively over him to keep him there, she slid her hand slowly down his chest to his stomach and then beneath the sheet. “I think you should stay right here and make love to me again. I vote for that.” She wrapped her small hand about his shaft and slid it slowly up and down.

  Throbbing against her palm, Max blew out a breath, about a minute away from losing his willpower and his work ethic. “Unfortunately, we have a manuscript to finish.” With regret, he eased her hand away. Looking down at his erection tenting the sheet, he said, “We’ll save this for later. Think of it as our motivation to churn out those final chapters. You get some rest. I’ll come wake you up when it’s your shift.”

  She slid a hand to the side of his jaw. Brushing her mouth over his, she said, “Write fast, Max. Write really fast.”

  * * *

  Shrugging into his shirt, Max opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Given the breakneck schedule they’d been on, he couldn’t resist letting Becky sleep for a few more hours. Since the call from Pat, they’d been working crazy hours and earlier he’d seen her pressing a hand to her lower back as though it hurt. Back pain was an occupational hazard of writing. She needed the sleep more than he did. While she rested, he’d get to work on the scenes they’d agreed in advance he would take the first crack at writing. By the time she got up, he’d be able to turn them over to her for editing and catch some shut-eye himself. Once they’d gotten into tag-team mode, the writing had gone a lot faster. He’d been so sure when it came to his work that he was a solo act, but writing was turning out to be a pretty good metaphor for life overall.

  It was easier to get through with a partner.

  Before Becky, he always thought the next woman in his life, assuming there was one, would be a facsimile of Elaina. Another tall, big-boned girl with soulful dark eyes and a messy mane of dark hair. Becky was petite, blond, and about as all-American as they came. Elaina had favored oversized sweaters, no-nonsense jeans, and sensible shoes. Becky was into couture clothing and designer footwear. Elaina’s temperament had been placid as a midsummer sky. Becky’s was more like that summer sky once it had split with the first thunderbolt of an unexpected storm. Elaina had accepted him for who he was.

  Becky challenged him to become all the things he’d yet to be.

  * * *

  They finished the manuscript around noon the next day. Seated at the keyboard, Max hesitated, the cursor hovering above the send button that, once struck, would catapult their manuscript into cyberspace and land it in Pat’s e-mail in-box in a matter of moments.

  He turned to his pretty coauthor. Even running on empty, she was a sight for sore—really sore—eyes. “You should do the honors.”

  Becky stood behind him, hands clenching the computer chair, a lump in her throat. Funny how she was experiencing none of the adrenaline rush that always came with completing a manuscript. If anything she felt oddly reluctant to let the book go, a first for her. Though Max had said he loved her, and she loved him, she wasn’t yet sure what that meant. They were two very different people who’d carved out distinct lives for themselves. How those lives would mesh once the book collaboration was out of the picture remained to be seen.

  She stepped back from the computer, willing herself to shake the negative thoughts from her head. If nothing else, the past few weeks of fresh starts and dazzling opportunities should have taught her to trust in the universe—and herself.

  “No, thanks. You go ahead.”

  Max twisted his head around to look back at her over the shelf of one muscular shoulder. “You’re sure?”

  After making love earlier, he’d collapsed on the office couch for some much-needed sleep. The side of his face still bore creases from the imprint of the couch pillow and the back of his hair stood up in a cowlick worthy of Dennis the Menace. Becky thought he looked amazing.

  Becky nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Max clicked Send. Seconds later Drake and Angelina and Falco and all the rest were hurtling into cyberspace. Exchanging first high fives and then congratulatory kisses, their creators went back to bed.

  Becky was still sleeping the next morning when Pat called to say she’d read the book in one four-hour marathon sitting and had loved it. There’d be a few minor editorial changes coming, mostly fluff stuff, but otherwise it was as pristinely perfect a manuscript draft as she’d ever seen. In fact, she’d already passed it to the bigwigs upstairs and the in-house buzz was building at breakneck pace. It seemed the powers that be were willing to front list the book, which meant putting major promo dollars behind it.

  The second call came an hour later from Harry on the home line. Max ran to answer it, hoping to intercept the phone before it woke Becky. Harry might be an A-list agent, but he couldn’t seem to hire a decent receptionist to save his life. Whoever he sat out front always managed to mix Max’s office and home numbers up.

  Busy picking up several days’ worth of collected clutter, he switched the call to speakerphone. “Hey, Harry, what’s up?”

  “I have great news, Maxie. I just got a call from my coagent out in L.A. I sent him a copy of you
r manuscript.” Harry’s voice was jubilant.

  “You mean Rebecca’s and mine,” Max corrected.

  “Whatever. I can’t say much, we’re at a very preliminary stage of the negotiation, but you should know that a major Hollywood production company is considering optioning it for a motion picture film. We’re talking big-screen, Max, and that means big bucks.”

  This was just the break Becky’s career needed. More thrilled for her than himself, Max answered, “That’s fabulous. Becky’s sleeping right now, but this definitely merits a wake-up call.”

  “Not so fast. For the moment, let sleeping dogs—or in this case, coauthors—lie. If the deal goes through, and it will, the producers want you to write the screenplay solo.”

  Max hesitated. Dialogue was more Becky’s strength than his. “I’m a novelist, not a screenplay writer.”

  “So you’ll learn. They’ll assign you a cowriter behind the scenes to show you the ropes.”

  “What about Becky?”

  “Do not fret, my friend. Rebecca St. Claire is history. We couldn’t do anything about the coauthorship on the novel, that’s a done deal, but you have my personal guarantee you will never have to coauthor anything, including the Drake and Angelina screenplay, with that woman ever again.”

  Max snatched up the receiver. “Are you saying you’ve found a way to cut Becky out of the screenplay deal?”

  Harry hesitated. “She will be compensated for creative translation of her character to film, of course, but that’s the tip of the iceberg, a small piece of the pie. You won’t have to worry about her ever again. You don’t have to thank me, Maxie, it’s the least I can do.”