Finding Mr. Right Now (16 page)

He wanted that glow back. Hell, he needed it back. That glow had warmed his cold Hollywood heart back close to life, something none of the starlets, publicists and development girls he’d dated had been able to do. Something he hadn’t felt for quite a while, in fact.

Of course, Monica was making him feel very good, even if she wasn’t glowing quite the way he wanted her to. Her hair floated around her head in a tangled halo of curls. Her face was slightly sunburned from their day on the river, pink cheeks and pink nose. So far as he could tell, she wore no makeup whatsoever, and it didn’t matter. She was gorgeous. Maybe he should tell her she didn’t need any of the stuff she usually wore—the straightened hair, the makeup, the professional clothes. She was a natural beauty all on her own.

Whoa! Probably need to back up a step there, boyo.
Only he didn’t want to back up just now. In fact, he wanted to move full-speed ahead.

He buried his face in her curls and inhaled the smell of sunlight and water as they moved around the dance floor. Whatever part of her was still Monica McKellar, Associate Producer for Fairstein Productions, was hidden deep beneath her current self. Monica gave a breathy giggle and pulled back to look at him. “What are you doing?”

“You smell wonderful,” he blurted and watched her eyes become wary. “I’m honestly not nuts, Monica, you do smell really good.”

She gave him an uncertain smile. “I’ve been on the river all day. I’m all gunky.”

“In your case, gunky smells terrific.”

The music blared from the jukebox behind them. Ronnie and her minions were doing some kind of line dance on the other side of the room. One of her escorts stumbled and managed to catch himself at the last minute. She shook her head and laughed.

“Ronnie seems to have recovered,” he said dryly.

“Good.” Monica gave him another smile, this time rueful. “I hope she can take some of these good vibes with her when we leave tomorrow. Who knows what’s going to happen when we get to Elkhorn Run.”

“Good vibes don’t just apply to Ronnie. You could use a few yourself.” He pulled her into his arms again, making another circuit. If they stayed at the edge of the dancers, they could avoid flailing feet, even if it did seem a little strange to be slow-dancing to “Achy-Breaky Heart.” He wasn’t willing to let her go, even for a two-step.

Monica sighed against his shoulder. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we can extend this two-day pass a little further.”

“Not without sabotaging the SUV, and I’m guessing Donovan would send somebody for us if we did.” He took another deep breath, smelling sunshine. “You want some dinner?”

She shook her head. “I ate a lot of that last plate of nachos Clark ordered. I’m feeling pretty full.”

“Want to take a walk?” He ran his index finger down her sunburned nose, willing her to say yes.

She stared up at him for a moment, gold flecks blazing in the deep brown of her eyes. “What do you have in mind?”

He shrugged. “Maybe a walk back to the hotel, where we can sit for a spell on the front porch unless it’s too cold.”

Her lips spread in a slow grin. “You’re on.”

Monica was making a real effort to ignore the voice in the back of her mind that was screaming
mistake, mistake
. A little snuggling on the veranda wouldn’t hurt anybody, and it was probably the last chance they’d have before they headed off to Elkhorn Run.

Last chance for what, Monica?

Last chance for…snuggling. Or something. She’d been over-thinking everything. Right now she was just going to kick back and enjoy herself for the rest of the evening. And enjoy Paul.

Mostly enjoy Paul. The way he looked. The way he talked. The way he…smelled. She tucked herself more firmly under his arm as they walked up the drive toward the hotel.

Besides, maybe snuggling would be all there was to it. They’d had a good day on the river. They’d had a mostly good time at the Blarney Stone, if you didn’t count Dick the dick. And maybe that would be the extent of it. Which was a good idea, of course. Playing around on hiatus was one thing, but playing around when you were on the job was something else. Once they started working again, they’d both be way too busy to think about stuff like this. Or she would be. She really
needed
to be. She didn’t stop to think why that particular fact made her heart ache a little.

Of course, there’d been that kiss last night, which had sent her to bed aching—in a very good way.

Kisses are okay. Maybe even more than kisses. But you can’t let it interfere with the job. Can you?
The job she’d worked so hard to get. The job that was supposed to be her stepping-stone to bigger and better, although it hadn’t been so far.

The Praeger House loomed ahead, the light at the front door gleaming in the velvet darkness. The night wind whispered through the pines around them, and small feet stuttered through the underbrush. Paul pulled her closer to the warmth of his body. She could feel the slabs of his muscles beneath his shirt, sending a shiver of heat along her spine.

“Thanks for standing up for me tonight,” she murmured. “I know Dick’s one of those jerks who like to argue. But he still managed to hit a nerve.”

Paul shrugged. “You were holding your own with him. I just added a few jabs around the edges.”

They started up the broad front steps, still leaning close together. “Where do we go to sit for a spell?” she asked.

He nodded toward the end of the porch. “There are some wicker couches over there. Just beyond the lobby.”

Dim light still shined from the lobby windows, casting deeper shadows on either side. He led her beyond the light pools, into the darkness at the end.

“Here.” He gestured toward a couch-shaped lump in the dim light. “Sit down and I’ll grab a blanket.”

“There are blankets?”

“Sure.” His grin flashed briefly in the darkness. “They don’t expect you to sit out in fifty-degree temperatures without something to take the chill off.”

Monica reached back to find the seat of the couch. It was so dark that she could hardly see, but after a moment her eyes began to adjust. The wicker creaked faintly beneath her weight as she sat. “You’re sure these will hold two of us?”

“Yeah. Wicker always makes noise. No problem.” He dropped down beside her, ignoring the wicker squeak, and unfolded a blanket across her knees so that the two of them were covered.

Heat spread across her lap that had nothing to do with Pendleton wool. She licked her lips. Time to head back to reality again, at least for a while. “I talked to Glenn this evening.”

“Yeah?” Paul didn’t sound all that interested.

“Yeah. He said they’ll probably start shooting tomorrow afternoon.” She leaned back carefully, trying to avoid more creaking. “They’ll have to clean Ronnie up, but he thinks they can squeeze in a date with one of the guys already at Elkhorn Run.”

“‘Clean Ronnie up’?” He sounded amused. “What do they think she’s been doing—scrubbing the kitchen at the Blarney Stone?”

“I think Glenn thinks she’s been roughing it for a couple of days. Maybe camping or something. So he’s going to let the makeup and hair people go to work.” She sighed. “I wish I could borrow them, but maybe I can make an appointment with a salon once we get there.”

“And do what?” His voice was definitely amused now. “What do you think needs fixing about you?”

“My hair,” she said automatically. “I look like Little Orphan Annie because I couldn’t use the blow dryer this morning. And I probably need a facial after the sunburn. I’m going to get freckles.”

He leaned a little closer, his breath warm against her cheek. “And this would be bad because…?”

“Because…” She paused, trying to remember what she’d meant to say. Her heart was thumping faster suddenly. “Because they’re freckles. Spots. They make me look like I’m twelve.”
And not Ms. Associate Producer. Which would be bad, right?

He slid his arm around her, his hand cupping her shoulder. “You don’t look much like a twelve-year-old, Monica. Or at least you don’t look much like the twelve-year-olds I’m familiar with. Maybe they’re different in… Where is it you’re from?”

“Illinois.” She swallowed hard, trying to slow down her galloping pulse. “Carbondale.”
Steady, Monica.

He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm, slowly. “I like your hair the way it is. It looks…free.”

She licked her lips again. Her skin felt tight, a little itchy. “
Free
isn’t exactly in style around Fairstein.” Or anywhere in the business, as far as that went.

“Maybe it should be.” He leaned toward her, and then his lips moved slowly down the side of her throat in a line of whispering kisses. Her breath caught as she rested her palm on his chest, feeling the galloping beat of his heart beneath it.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing along her cheekbone. Her heart thundered against her ribs. And then his fingers moved beneath her chin, turning her face toward him, and his lips fastened on hers.

His mouth was soft and firm at the same time, tasting of salt and something spicy and sweet. Maybe just male. His fingers wrapped tight in her hair, sliding along her scalp, sending tingles of awareness along her skin. He held her head back so he could kiss her more slowly, his tongue delving into her mouth, sweet, hot, masculine to the essence.

Her body seemed to go limp in his grasp. She raised her arms and twined them around his neck, moving herself against him, almost for support, as her bones turned to water. The heat of his mouth pulled her tight; the clean scent of his skin filled her head like perfume. She felt starved suddenly, ravenous for him, sucking his tongue deeper into her mouth.

He slid his hand beneath the edge of her shirt, finding the clasp at the front of her bra and opening it. Then he cupped her breast, his finger and thumb pinching her nipple until it pulled tight, aching.

She pushed her own hands beneath his shirt, feeling warm skin, the crinkle of hair beneath her fingertips. She reached farther, sliding her fingers over the flat circles of his nipples, the banked heat of his body.

Finally he lifted his head, and she heard the rasp of his sigh. He leaned his forehead against hers as if he was trying to catch his breath, angling his body to push her down against the couch. The wicker creaked loudly beneath them, and she felt absurdly like laughing. Except, of course, she might not be able to stop if she started.

His hand closed over her breast again, weighing, kneading, his fingers pinching the nipple tight. Sensation speared through her body, an arrow straight to her core, and she moaned.

“Oh God,” she whispered. “We can’t do this here, can we?”

“Why not?” His voice was warm and golden in the night, pure seduction. Distillation of sex. If he could bottle it, he’d be a billionaire overnight. “Where else could we go? I’m not interested in calling it a night yet, believe me. And neither of us has a room available.”

“But we’re on a couch on the front porch of a hotel,” she whispered, “where anybody could walk up at any time.”

“We’re in the dark. Nobody can see us unless they walk to the end of the veranda. Besides, what’s life without a little risk? Haven’t you ever wanted to do it in a public place?”

Had she? She wasn’t sure—the last time she’d had sex had been a good while ago, thanks to the demands of Fairstein Productions
.
She moved slightly to the accompaniment of the wicker’s creak. “We have a soundtrack.”

He chuckled. “Yeah. Provides atmosphere, doesn’t it? Every time I hear creaking wicker from now on, I’ll remember this.”

“Paul…” she murmured.

He pulled back to look at her, his face a dark shape above her. “Don’t. Don’t pull back. I want you, you want me. Stay with me now. Please.”

His breath against her cheek was warm again, his muscles hard against her body. She fit against him perfectly, curves and angles formed for each other. “Yes, okay.”

Her body throbbed from the contact with his, wrapped in the warmth of his skin, the slide of his muscles. Her hips tilted to cradle the swell of his erection and the heat speared through her again.

She moaned, and his mouth moved down her throat, his teeth nipping at the place where her neck and shoulder met, then sucking her skin to soothe the bite. Everywhere he touched a new flame seemed to burn.

His hands moved to the front of her T-shirt, pushing it up to her shoulders. He rubbed his hands across her nipples, teasing them to burning points. One arm reached beneath her waist, bending her back. His mouth dropped to her breast, pressing her nipple tight between tongue and teeth.

She reached a hand behind his head, pushing him tighter against her body as she gasped. Then she was clawing at his shirt, pushing it up so that she could feel his skin against her breasts. Her body ached with the need to go further, to push beyond the limits.

Oh God, we really are going to do this.

His hands dropped to the waistband of her jeans, undoing the button, pulling down the zipper. He pulled down her jeans and panties, and then his hands were cupping her bottom, warm palms burning again. His fingers moved into her folds, wet with desire, opening her, finding her center.