Lovers and Liars (29 page)

“You can tell this was written by a woman,” Jack shouted. “It
reeks
of being written by a woman!”

“Time out!” Mascione yelled.

Belinda and Jack both turned, as one, to glare at him. Jack grabbed Belinda. “We’re going to discuss this scene in private.”

“Oh, great!” Belinda cried, half running to keep up as Jack half dragged her out of the clearing and toward his RV. Around them everyone stared; and behind them everyone began whispering.

He almost threw her into the trailer. Belinda stood ready to fight, everything perfectly clear now. He slammed the door shut. Hard. The RV shook.

“Is this what it’s going to be like?” Belinda demanded.

He was panting too. “What are you talking about?”

“You … wielding your power over me … any way you can.”

“Ah, shit,” Jack said fiercely, slamming his fist on the table. The coffeepot jumped. He glared at her. “I meant what I said. Nick wouldn’t act like some pussy around Adrienne.”

“Nick is no pussy, believe me. He’s all man.”

“How would you know?”

“Believe me, I know a man when I see one.”

Jack laughed. “Yeah, right! Like that fancy boyfriend of yours? If that’s your idea of a man—”

Belinda clenched her fists. “Adam has nothing to do with Nick.”

“Trust me, I’m a man. Ryder would not say all that shit to Adrienne.”

All that shit? “Nick is my character!” Belinda cried. “I created him! No one knows him the way I do!”

“Wrong!” Jack yelled, jabbing with his thumb. “Wrong, lady, wrong! Nick is my character! I am Nick! From now until this shoot is over
 … I am Nick Ryder!”

Belinda stared. “Right,” she said quietly. “You are Nick Ryder, and you are the King.” In one motion she pulled her sweater over her head and dropped it onto the floor.

Jack’s eyes widened as he stared at her full white breasts.

“Let’s get this over with,” she said. “You can have what you want, and then we can act like normal, professional adults.” She reached for her jeans and unsnapped them.

Like iron, his hand clamped over hers, stilling her. “Put on your sweater.” His tone was steel.

She looked at him.

His gaze was ice—smoldering ice.

Belinda, why did you just do that, she thought. Way too late!

His gaze dropped to her chest. “You really get a kick out of pushing me,” he said, his tone as coarse as sandpaper. “I must be a saint. You’ve got three seconds. After that, I don’t give a fuck—I’m going to live up to all your worst expectations.”

Disappointment or relief? Belinda picked up her sweater and pulled it on. “Then why did you drag me in here?”

“To hammer out this scene,” he snapped.

She studied him. “You really think it’s too soft for Ryder?”

His gaze flew to her. “Yes.”

“I wanted the audience to understand him, to really understand him here.”

He was all attention. “They will. I can do it, Belinda—
you watch. And I don’t want to take out all of the dialogue, just the fifth through seventh lines on the last page.”

“You have a script around here?”

“Yeah, of course.” lack grabbed another copy, opened it. Although it was impossible not to be aware of him as a man, Belinda came close to concentrate on the page.

“Here,” he said, pointing with one long finger.

“Yeah, I see. You are really good at conveying emotion without dialogue,” she mused.

Their gazes caught. “Thank you.”

She shrugged. “I never said you weren’t a good actor.”

He looked at her.

She turned away. “Why not? It’s only three lines. If you can do it, the audience won’t miss anything.”

“Belinda.”

She had her hands in her pockets. She lifted her glance.

“You are a helluva writer.”

She stared.

“I know this is your first sale. It’s really good, really intense—and you didn’t sacrifice character development for the action. It’s really good.”

She couldn’t help it—she smiled. Really smiled. “Thanks.”

Suddenly he grinned. “And you have great fucking tits.”

Now she was on familiar turf. “I know.”

“I’ll bet you do. You sure you don’t want to rewind a bit—back to the part where you take your sweater off?”

She couldn’t help it. She gave him a look. His smile faded. “Shit,” he said. “Belinda …”

She knew now that it was disappointment—that regardless of common sense, she wanted him. “Jack …”

He crossed to her, his face strained, his large warm hands going to her arms. “Oh, baby,” he said, “you’re going to drive me crazy.”

She touched his face, trying very hard not to think about the consequences of what they were going to do. To her surprise, he shuddered.

The door flew open. Mascione took them in with a
glance and was unfazed. “Shit! Jack, I got bad, bad news! Honey, you’d better leave!”

Jack was still holding Belinda, and his grip didn’t relax. “She can stay. You got great frigging timing, Don. What is it?”

“Jack, shit, I’m sorry, you should really sit down.”

Jack didn’t move.

“Jack—it’s your mother.”

Jack didn’t blink.

“She died this morning.”

Jack’s hold on Belinda tightened. But only for a moment. Belinda thought she glimpsed surprise, but then there was nothing. In a man whose eyes were such beautiful mirrors of raw emotion, she saw nothing but dark shutters. “Yeah?” he said casually, and he moved away.

And that was all he said.

Two hours later he was on his way to the airport.

50

M
elody made all the arrangements at Jack’s short, unemotional request. Janet had been in L.A., had died in bed in a grimy, run-down apartment in Santa Monica. Apparently she had refused to be hospitalized. She had been having chemotherapy treatments. The funeral would be tomorrow.

Melody’s heart ached for Jack.

She was no longer angry, no longer upset. In the face of Jack’s crisis, she forgot her own. She forgot how she’d felt when Jack hadn’t turned to her again, hadn’t even acted as if he remembered making love to her—and had been panting around that blond bitch like a rutting stud.

What was he thinking? What was he feeling?

He didn’t want to see his mother. He didn’t know who
her friends were and he didn’t care if there was a wake or not. He didn’t want a funeral service. “Just see that she’s buried somewhere, anywhere, for God’s sake,” he’d snapped, finally showing some emotion, this one close to anger. “I don’t have time for this,” he said brusquely.

He hadn’t wanted to leave the shoot. Even Mascione hadn’t been able to talk any sense into him. It was Melody who had swayed him. “Jack,” she said, “if the press gets wind of this, that you didn’t even go to your mother’s funeral …” She hadn’t had to say any more. He’d boarded the next plane back to LAX.

How could Jack be so cold? After all, no matter what, Janet was his mother. Had been, she silently corrected. And now when he needed her, Melody, he was pulling away, becoming impossible to get close to.

Melody had already tried to leave a message in New York for Peter Lansing. She doubted he would be able to find and bring Leah back in time for the funeral. Now it looked as if he had already left New York. Well, that was that. She had more important things to worry about.

And what about Rick? When Melody had asked Jack how he was going to break the news, Jack had almost turned vicious, he had become so angry. “I don’t know,” he growled, and taking the hint, Melody had disappeared.

The funeral was tomorrow. And she was going to be there, right at Jack’s side to comfort him in his time of need.

51

T
here should have been something, he supposed. Anything. Guilt, joy. Relief, anger. But there wasn’t.

Nothing.

There was nothing.

His mother was dead.

So what?

He thought about the shoot. About Belinda. About having to leave in the middle of production—about having to leave her just when they were finally going to make it. And that brought forth anger. Lots of anger. Even in death she was fucking him over. Even in death she couldn’t leave him alone.

His mother was dead.

So she hadn’t lied. She really had been dying. Selfish to the end. Coming to him because she felt his forgiveness might gain her salvation.

And he hadn’t lifted a finger to help her.

Maybe his money could have bought better doctors and prolonged her life. She hadn’t even had medical supervision—she had died alone, somewhere that could have been anywhere.

What did it matter? She had died a long time ago—for him.

The same numbness he had felt when Mascione had told him the news overtook him now. He really didn’t feel a damn thing for the woman who had called herself his mother. And why should he?

Somewhere deep inside there was the damn pinprick, a kind of faint, indistinguishable ache, piercing. He shoved it back down to wherever it had come from. Whatever it meant, there was no fucking way he was going to pay attention to it.

He was relieved that he had Melody to take care of the funeral. But what about Rick? He had to tell him—he couldn’t put it off—and he had no idea how the kid would react. Janet was one topic they never, ever discussed.

Something pricked him again. Harder this time.

He ignored it. He would go to the goddamn funeral because of the kid and because Melody was right—not to go would mean bad press at a crucial time in his career. But then he would head up to Aspen for some hard skiing. Mascione had told him they were rearranging the shooting schedule, that they wouldn’t need him now until after the
holidays. It was a damn good thing he always went to Aspen for Christmas. As if he wanted to sit idle when he’d been idle the past five months. But at least he was going back to work. That was all that counted.

Everything was perfect.

Just perfect.

52