See Jane Fall (23 page)

She stared back at him—cool, collected—and
his anger rose up again.

He smiled at her, feeling mean, feeling
hurt. “I’ve been meaning to tell you…You were right. Your cousin’s
amazing.”

She took a step back from him and winced,
and then she turned away, throwing over her shoulder, “Then don’t
keep her waiting.”

He saw her face change and knew he had hurt
her a little, which, he had to admit, felt terrible and satisfying
at once. Why should he be the only one suffering? He ran his hands
through his hair, watching her retreat, half considering chasing
after her, grabbing her, dragging her into the woods, and kissing
her until she admitted that whatever was between them was not over
or icy, and deserved a chance.

“
Damn it
,” he snarled under his
breath, clenching his jaw as she turned out of sight. He shook his
head, then turned the knob in front of him and stepped inside the
dim, cool trailer, pulling the door shut behind him.

Lars turned around and his mouth almost fell
open. He swallowed, his heart pounding, his blood rip roaring like
molten lava through his body. What he was looking at was totally
inappropriate, but he couldn’t look away.

Samara sat with her back to him in a white
lace bra and matching panties. She caught his eyes in the mirror as
he walked in, then swiveled in her seat to face him. He could make
out her nipples through the filmy fabric, dark and taut in the
center of her perfect breasts, puckered into impatient points under
the pristine gauze that trapped them.

“Hi.” She smiled, looking teasingly down at
her breasts and then slowly back up again to meet his eyes. “You
like?”

He cleared his throat and nodded his head,
wide eyed, unable to look away, unable to process a coherent
thought with the deafening pounding of his heart in his ears.

She looked him up and down, slowly,
deliberately. “I like too.”

Samara giggled, cupping one breast in her
hand and putting a finger in her mouth, between her teeth, holding
Lars’s eyes. Then she breathed deeply, sighing, and stood up,
taking his hand. She raised it to her breast, placing his palm
around the perfect orb of white lace, and leaned forward, touching
her lips to his.

Shock morphed into hot, rock-hard arousal as
he squeezed her breast under his hand and she pushed her tongue
into his mouth. It was like his body switched over to autopilot and
his heart pounded, making him feel dizzy…until his brain registered
something unexpected; he tasted something bitter on her tongue.

Tobacco
, he thought.
Nicotine.
She smokes.

She wound her arms around his neck, pulling
his head closer to hers, and he wondered, distractedly, when she
smoked and how often. Had she hid out behind her trailer and had a
cigarette while she sent Jane to go find him? He inhaled and
realized he smelled it lightly on her hair too. He hadn’t noticed
it in the car, but it was unmistakable now, and distracting to
him.

It tasted…stale. It tasted like the way an
old bar smelled. Even though no one smoked in it anymore, you could
still smell the decades-old residue. It made his heart stop
pounding so hard, and his hands went slack on her breasts. All of
the sexual hunger he felt a moment ago was ebbing away, making him
uncomfortably aware that she was moving her lips on his, touching
her tongue with his in lavish swirls…but he felt none of the
fireworks he should have felt. He felt about as much excitement as
he’d feel having his annual oral exam at the dentist.

Holy shit.
She was
Samara
Amaya
, for Pete’s sake, and he
didn’t like
kissing her.
He didn’t
want
to be kissing her.

Further, he didn’t feel even a fraction of
the hot, desperate longing he had felt with Jane.
Jane.
As
the fog of surprise and arousal cleared from his mind, Jane’s face
was all he could see in his mind, and he knew: He didn’t want
Samara, he wanted Jane. He moved his hands to Samara’s shoulders to
push her away.

Suddenly the front door of the trailer
opened, and Lars jerked back from Samara, as Margot stepped in,
pulling the door shut behind her.

Lars took a deep breath, wishing he could
get her taste out of his mouth, feeling queasy and discombobulated
and off kilter.
Had Margot seen anything? Oh, God, if she saw
anything and told Jane…

When he looked back at Samara, her arms were
crossed and he saw her eyes flash with anger first at him, then at
Margot. “OUT!”

The large woman turned awkwardly in the
small space, glancing at Lars with worried eyes then shifting back
to take in Samara’s skimpy attire. “Oh, I didn’t realize—”

“Now you do. I’m busy. Out.
NOW…
dear
.” Samara’s voice was low and firm, and she growled
the last word through bared teeth. And her voice, which was
generally so light and carefree, was laced with…with what?
Impatience? Yes. And frustration. And something else too. Menace?
Surely not menace.

“I’m s-sorry. I just need—” She turned back
to Samara, reaching a flabby arm over her head and grabbing the
scarf hanging from a shelf over Samara. As she pulled on it, about
a dozen scarves tumbled down from the shelf onto Samara’s head,
shoulders, and onto the top of the vanity table beside her in an
unruly heap.

Samara pulled scarves off her shoulders and
head and threw them to the floor. Her eyes were furious and a sneer
soured her pretty face. “Of all the STUPID FU—” She let the sound
hang there as she glanced at Lars, taking a deep breath, and
exhaling with a hiss before finishing, “uhhh—
things
to
happen,
dear.
”

Lars leaned down, gathering up the scarves
into a pile, and offered them to a trembling Margot, who stood
cowering against the door of the trailer. She took the scarves, and
he patted her arm, speaking gently. “No harm done. Here you
go.”

Her eyes were trained on Samara behind him,
in fear and worry, but when he turned to look at Samara, she gave
him a sort-of fake smirk, her index finger lightly running back and
forth across her neck.

He looked back at Margot, who still looked
distraught. She turned and opened the trailer door, muttering,
“I’m—I’m so sorry for interrupting you, Miss Amaya. So sorry.”

“Just close the door behind you, dear, and
try to remember to knock next time.”

Margot stepped out the trailer, closing the
door, and Lars turned back to Samara who still stood with her hands
on her hips.

“She seems a little edgy.”

“Shoot day. Lots of pressure on the poor
dear. She’s so fat, the heat’s probably getting to her. Probably
Jane too.” Samara sat back down in front of her vanity, taking out
the ponytail and running long fingers through her inky black
hair.

Lars stood against the wall by her mirror
facing her, watching her, sort of relieved to realize that he
didn’t want—
Wait. What?

“Jane?” He didn’t realize he said the words
aloud until Samara tilted her face away from the mirror to look up
at him.

“She’s always been chunky, but she didn’t
use to be
so
fat.”

“Jane’s not fat.”

Samara chuckled, brushing her hair in long
strokes. “Oh, you’re so sweet. No wonder she has a crush on
you.”

“A crush?”

“Her eyes follow you around like a puppy
dog.” Samara turned back to the mirror. “I’ll speak to her. Tell
her to back off. She uses her dead parents as an excuse to glom on
to everyone she meets. It’s very awkward. Especially for me. What
can I do? She’s family. I was practically forced to let her work
for me. But, I’ll have a word with her.”

Lars was starting to feel awkward, all
right. But it had nothing to do with Jane. “Um, no. It’s fine.
Please don’t do that. Jane’s been great. You don’t…you don’t need
to talk to her.”

“Well, okay. If you change your mind, tell
me. Pathetic little thing. Well, not
so
little, huh?” She
smirked, catching his eyes in the mirror. “Anyway. Enough about
Jane. I want to talk about you…and me.”

She bunched her shoulders like a coquette
and giggled. She put that index finger back in her mouth for a
second then swiveled away from the mirror, tilting her head to the
side. He wondered if she owned a toothbrush and why it didn’t get
more of a workout.

“Sorry we got interrupted. I want to invite
you over tonight. I figured we could have a little champagne? Get
to know each other better? Pick up where we left off?”

“Tonight. I…I, um…”
Tonight. Tonight.
Samara Amaya, arguably the hottest woman he’d ever seen in his
life, was sitting in front of him in her underwear asking him to
come over tonight, and he didn’t want to offend her, but he wanted
to say no.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught
sight of something: Jane’s beat-up Red Sox cap hung limp and
forgotten over the corner of Samara’s vanity mirror.

Samara followed his eyes.

“That’s not mine.”

“No. It’s Jane’s.”

Out of nowhere he had a sudden flashback to
Jane straddling him on the bed in her motel room. He had barely had
the self-control to demand stop or go. All he had wanted to do was
throw her on her back and bury his body in hers, quench his thirst,
requite his longing—

Samara’s voice forced him back to the
present.

“Grubby old thing. It was her Dad’s.
Whatever.” Samara rolled her eyes. “So, tonight?”

He looked back at Samara.
Tonight. Dad.
Pop
. With inexplicable relief, he remembered he had committed
to that business meeting with his brother and father tonight. “I
wish I could, but I can’t. I have to work tonight.”

“
I’m
your work this week, aren’t I?”
She tilted her head to the side, straightening her back, thrusting
her chest out toward him. The back of her hand ran lazily across
her chest, finally resting above her cleavage.

His eyes followed her hand, then he raised
them quickly back to her face. He glanced at the beat-up little cap
again, and he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t say yes.

Maggie’s words flitted through his head,
making more sense now. He didn’t like the way her costume assistant
had appeared so terrified. He didn’t like the way Jane had turned
into an automaton as soon as Samara had arrived, and what’s more,
as much as he was still hurt by Jane’s rejection, he didn’t like
the way Samara was talking about Jane either. And no, a casual
fling didn’t necessarily require that he
like
Samara, but he
should be able to kiss her without feeling nauseous. Even more
importantly, he should be able to kiss her without wishing she was
someone else.

“You’re my client, yes. But, I have to get
to some paperwork tonight.” He didn’t want to make her angry, so he
smiled and softened his refusal. “Rain check, Beautiful?”

She smiled, mollified. “Of course. Tomorrow
night instead?”

Again, he didn’t want to refuse her, but
something had shifted substantially inside of him during the last
few minutes. He didn’t like her as much as he had before stepping
into her trailer. Kissing her had felt meaningless and a little
gross, and it was impossible not to compare the scorching chemistry
he had with Jane to the big lump of nothing he felt for Samara. He
sort of gave her a half smile without answering, then turned toward
the door.

Samara cleared her throat, reaching for
Jane’s cap, eyes narrowed. “Send Jane in, would you?”

He opened the trailer door, stepping
outside, then closed it behind him, taking a deep gulp of fresh,
clean air. Regret assaulted him immediately.

Are you a total and complete idiot? You just
turned down a night with Samara Amaya! For a girl who doesn’t even
want you. And, heck! You could have chewed gum or eaten a breath
mint, for crissakes!

He ran his hands through his blond hair,
disbelievingly, and considered stepping back into the trailer and
telling her he’d made a mistake. But, he couldn’t and he knew why.
Because one, he wasn’t feeling very turned on by Samara or
comfortable with her…and two, that stupid, battered, frayed Red Sox
cap would stare at him in judgment, almost like it could talk,
almost like it was spying on him for Jane.

Jane, who wasn’t as pretty as her cousin,
who wasn’t interested in him, who had made pains to distance
herself from him…Jane who was—apparently—so far under his skin that
he was going to turn down Samara—
a supermodel, for
crissakes!
—who actually
wanted
him, because he couldn’t
get Jane out of his head.

“I’m going to start drinking,” he muttered,
shaking his head.

“Champagne?” He turned to find Jane standing
behind him, likely referring to Samara’s intended rendezvous.

She knew Samara’s plan? Of course she did.
She wanted him to be free to do what he needed to do, right?
God, this whole situation is so fucked up.

“No, Jane. I have to work tonight.” His
words were clipped, curt and angry, delivered with narrowed, unkind
eyes.

But something inside of him softened as he
heard her soft intake of breath in a surprised gasp.

He watched her cheeks flush pink with an
unguarded, pleased expression that widened her eyes and turned up
her lips in the slightest smile. The afternoon breeze moved her
curls, and he wanted to reach over and wrap one around his finger.
Amazement continued to play out over her face as her brows knitted
in wonder or confusion, and she held his eyes, her lips still and
soft.

Suddenly, touching a curl wouldn’t be
enough; his heart hammered with emotion as he stared into her eyes.
He wanted to grab her, seize her lips with his punishingly,
unforgivably. It felt like a million years since being in her bed
Monday night and he was angry that he still wanted her so much.
Angry that he had just turned down sex with a supermodel because he
didn’t feel half of what he’d felt kissing Jane when he kissed her
cousin. He was angry with her for making him feel discarded and he
was especially angry because as he gazed into her eyes, he felt
hope that they could still work out. And he hated himself for
hoping.