Authors: Perfect
man who was
waiting
to be displeased.
"We don't have to watch this," she said.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world."
A few minutes later he let out a snort of disgust.
Julie paused with her hand in the bowl of popcorn.
"Is something wrong?"
"The
lighting
is wrong."
"What lighting?"
"Look at the shadow on Swayze's face."
She looked up at the television. "I think it's supposed to be shadowy. It's nighttime."
He gave her a disgusted look that mocked her assumption and said nothing.
Dirty Dancinghad always been a favorite of Julie's.
She loved the music and the dancing and the refreshing simplicity of the love story; she was just starting to enjoy all that when Zack drawled, "I think they used axle grease on Swayze's hair."
"Zack—" she said in a warning tone, "if you are going to start ripping this movie apart, I'm turning it off."
"I won't say another word. I'll just sit here."
"Good."
"And watch bad editing, bad directing, and bad dialogue."
"That does it—"
"Sit still," Zack said when she moved to get up.
Thoroughly disgusted with himself for behaving like a
jealous adolescent and denigrating actors who'd been his friends as well as criticizing a movie that was very good in its category, he laid his hand on her arm and promised, "I won't say another thing unless it's complimentary." In keeping with that promise, Zack did not utter another word until Swayze was dancing with the girl who played his dancing partner in the movie, and then he said, "At least
she
can dance.
Nice
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casting there."
The blonde on the screen was beautiful and talented with a gorgeous figure. Julie would have cut off a limb to look exactly like her, and she felt an absurd stab of jealousy that was harder to hide when confronted with Zack's unprecedented moodiness.
Added to that, she thought his deliberate omission of Patrick Swayze's dancing talent was unjust. She was on the verge of remarking on the fact that the
women
in the films all seemed to please him when it hit her that he might have been feeling the same way when she raved about his competition. Gaping at his stony profile, she blurted, "Are you
jealous
of him?"
He slanted her a look of withering scorn. "How could I possibly be jealous of Patrick Swayze!"
Obviously he did like watching beautiful women, Julie thought, and it hurt her even though she knew she
had absolutely no right to feel that way. He also hated this movie and it was obvious. Keeping her face
scrupulously polite, she reached for the stack of videotapes on the table and said quietly, "Let's watch
Dances with Wolves
instead. Kevin Costner was wonderful in that, and it's a story that would appeal to
a man."
"I saw it in prison."
He'd seen most of the others there too, he'd said earlier today, so she didn't see what that had to do with
anything. "Did you like it?"
"I thought it dragged in the middle."
"Really," she shot back, realizing now that none of the movies except his own was going to meet his approval and that she was going to have to suffer through it or else endure his mood. "How did you like
the end?"
"Kevin changed it from the book. He should have left it alone." Without a word, Zack got up and headed for the kitchen to make some coffee, trying to get control of himself. He was so furious with his irrational and unjust remarks over both films that he mismeasured the amount of ground coffee twice and had to start over. Patrick Swayze had done a very nice job in the first film; Kevin had not only been a friend, but
Dances with Wolves
had earned him the acclaim he richly deserved, and Zack had been glad to see it happen.
He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't realize that Julie had switched movies until he was halfway across the living room with two cups of coffee. His steps faltered, and for a moment he stared in
blank shock, then uneasiness at what she'd done.
She'd not only switched movies and put in one of Zack's, she'd fast-forwarded it to a love scene in the middle of it and was watching it without sound. Of all the love scenes he'd ever played, this one in
Intimate Strangers,
released over seven years ago, was
the most blatantly sexual. And in the moments he stood there, adjusting to the unreality of watching himself in bed with Glenn Close, in a movie he hadn't seen since it was released, Zack felt uncomfortable
for the first time in his life over something he'd done in a picture. No, not
what
he'd done, he realized, but that Julie was watching him do it and with a stony blank look on her face that did not escape him. Nor did the fact that although she'd pretended not to be familiar with any of his films in the cabinet, she actually knew them well enough to know exactly where to find certain scenes in them. All in all, when he
considered that cool look on her face along with the scene she'd deliberately chosen to watch, he had the distinct sensation of having been better of ten minutes ago when all he had to cope with was his own
nonsensical jealousy. He put the coffee cups on the table and straightened, not certain exactly why she was suddenly so angry. "What's the idea, Julie?"
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"What do you mean?" she asked with sham innocence, turning up the volume on the remote controller,
her gaze riveted on the television screen.
"Why are you watching that?"
"Watching what?" Julie asked with an indifference that completely belied the twisting ache in her stomach
at the sight of Zack's hands on Glenn Close's body, his mouth on hers in a torrid kiss like the ones he gave Julie, his tanned torso gleaming against the stark white of a sheet that barely covered his hip.
"You know exactly what I mean. First you acted like you'd never seen a movie of mine in that cabinet and didn't care to, and when you do decide to watch one, you go directly to a scene like this."
"I've seen all your movies," she informed him, watching the television set and refusing to look at him
when he sat down beside her. "I have most of them, including this one, on videotape, I've watched this particular one at least a half-dozen times." She nodded toward the picture. "How's the lighting there?"
Zack pulled his gaze from her rigid features and flicked a glance at the television screen. "Not bad."
"What about the acting?"
"Not bad."
"Yes, but do you think you did a good enough job with that kiss? I mean, could you have kissed her deeper or harder just then? Probably not," she answered herself bitterly. "Your tongue was in her mouth
already."
She was making her point eloquently, and now that he understood what was eating her, he regretted everything he'd said that had ultimately caused her to do this. He'd never imagined it would upset her to watch him do anything in what was, to him, simply a movie, a performance given in the presence of dozens of people on a sound stage.
"How did you
feel
when she was kissing you back like that?"
"Hot," he said. When she flinched at the word he used, he clarified quickly, "The lights were hot—too bright—I could tell they were, and I was worried about it."
"Oh, but I'm sure you weren't thinking about lights right now," she nodded toward the set as if mesmerized by it. "Not with your hands all over her breasts."
"As I recall, I was thinking how much I wanted to strangle the director for making us do another take of
that same scene."
She ignored that truth completely and said with a hurt that was poorly concealed beneath sarcasm, "I wonder what Glenn Close was thinking just then—
when you kissed her breasts."
"She was fantasizing about murdering the director, too, for the same reason."
"Really?" she said sarcastically. "What do you suppose she was thinking about when you rolled on top of
her like that?"
Zack reached out and caught Julie's chin, gently forcing her face toward his. "I
know
what she was
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thinking about. She was praying I'd get my elbow out of her stomach before she got the giggles again and
spoiled another take."
In the face of his calm sincerity and matter-of-fact attitude, Julie suddenly felt foolish and completely unsophisticated. With an exasperated sigh, she said,
"I'm sorry for behaving like an idiot. The reason I pretended I wasn't interested in watching your movies was because I dreaded seeing a scene like this
with you in it. I know it's stupid, but it makes me feel—" she broke off, refusing to say jealous because
she knew she had no right to be that.
"Jealous?" he suggested, and the word sounded even more revolting when spoken aloud.
"Jealousy is a destructive and immature emotion,"
she hedged.
"One that makes a person irrational and impossible to get along with," he agreed.
Julie said a silent prayer of thanks that she hadn't used that word and nodded. "Yes, well, watching you
in those scenes simply makes me wish … we could watch a different movie."
"Fine, whose movie would you like to watch? Name any actor you choose." She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he added flatly, "So long as it isn't Swayze, Costner, Cruise, Redford, Newman, McQueen, Ford, Douglas, or Gere."
Julie gaped at him. "Who's left?"
Curving his arm around her shoulders, he drew her close and whispered his answer against her hair.
"Mickey Mouse."
Julie didn't know whether to laugh or demand an explanation. "Mickey Mouse! But why?"
"Because," he murmured, sliding his lips to her temple, "I think I could listen to you rave about Mickey
without getting 'irrational' again and 'impossible to get along with.'"
Trying to hide the poignant pleasure she felt at what he'd just admitted, Julie lifted her face to his and teasingly said, "There's always Sean Connery. He was wonderful in
The Hunt for Red October."
Zack raised his brows in mocking challenge.
"There's always the other six of my movies in that cabinet,
too."
Now that she'd made a joke of his admission and safely avoided admitting her own jealousy, Julie instantly regretted her cowardice and the fact that she'd belittled a special moment. Sobering, she looked
into his eyes and said shakily, "I
hated
watching you making love to Glenn Close."
The reward for her courage was a brush of his long fingers against her jaw and a rough-tender kiss that stole her breath.
Julie glanced out the kitchen window at the setting sun, put down her paring knife, and went into the
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living room to turn on the television set. A satellite dish somewhere on the mountain enabled them to bring
in CNN, and she hadn't heard the news since this morning.
Zack had spent the day clearing the drive all the way down to the bridge, using the huge tractor in the garage that spewed snow in a seventy-foot arc from a blower attached to it, and now he was taking a shower. This morning, when he first told her what he planned to do, she'd thought he intended for them to leave today or tomorrow, and she'd been seized with a panic that nearly strangled her. As if he read her thoughts, he said, "I'll tell you the day before it's time to leave." When she tried to get him to say if he already knew what day that was going to be, he replied vaguely that he wasn't certain, which gave Julie
the impression he was waiting for something to happen … or for someone to contact him.
He was right, of course, that the less she knew, the better off they both were. He was equally right to insist they simply enjoy each moment of the time they had together and not think beyond that moment.
He
was right about everything, but it was impossible not to wonder and worry what was going to happen to him next. She couldn't imagine how he could hope to find out who killed his wife when his face was so well known that he'd be recognized immediately wherever he went.
Still, he'd been an actor, so makeup and disguises would be easy for him. She was counting on that to keep him safe. And she was terrified it wouldn't.
The television screen lit up, and she listened absently to some psychologist who was evidently the guest
on CNN as she headed back to the kitchen. She was nearly there when she realized the psychologist was talking about
her,
and she whirled around. Eyes wide with disbelief, she walked toward the television set, staring at the subtitle on the screen that identified the speaker as William Everhardt, Ph.D.
With absolute confidence, Dr. Everhardt was expounding on what Julie Mathison was going through
emotionally as a result of being taken hostage:
"A great deal of research has been done with hostages like Miss Mathison,"he was saying.
"I
myself
coauthored a book on this subject, and I can tell you
with all certainty, that the young lady is
living through a highly stressful, but very predictable
sequence of emotions."
Julie tipped her head to the side, fascinated to learn what was going on in her mind from this unknown expert on the subject.
"During the first and second day, fear is the primary emotion—and a very paralyzing one, I might add.
The hostage feels helpless, too terrified to think or act, but they hold out hope that they'll be rescued.
Later, usually on the third day, rage sets in. Rage at the injustice being done them and at the victim role they're forced to endure."
With amused derision, Julie held up her fingers and counted off the days, comparing her reality with his
"expert knowledge." On the first day, she had gone from fear to fury within hours and tried to slip a note to the clerk in the fast-food restaurant. On the second day, she had tried to escape from him at the rest stop—and nearly succeeded. On the third day, she'd succeeded in escaping. She'd been a little afraid and extremely nervous, but certainly not paralyzed.