Come Fly with Me (13 page)

“If that's what you want.”

“It's what I want.” Ironically she felt no particular satisfaction in the victory. She got the contract out of her briefcase, where she'd put it after her several attempts to leave it
under his nose had failed, and handed it to him. Then, suddenly cold deep inside, she poured herself some brandy and waited.

While he read it, she watched him intently, chewing on her nails. When she noticed what she was doing, she wanted to throw her brandy snifter at him. She hadn't bitten her nails since junior high. At least back then, it had been over something simple like a math test and she'd been able to stop it once she'd passed.

But there was nothing simple about Mark Channing. If she'd ever thought there might be, her conversation with Mrs. Tynan had dispelled that idea once and for all. And even if she left Boulder tonight, she had a feeling she would not be leaving Mark behind. It was far too late for that. No matter where she went now or how long she was gone, she would carry his image and the memory of his tender, erotic touches in her heart.

“O
kay,” Mark said flatly a half hour later, his voice empty of emotion. His tone sent a chill down Lindsay's spine. “I've read every clause, every one of Trent Langston's crazy, outrageous attempts at bribery. Now what?”

“It's not bribery.” She paused, as his dark brows arched skeptically, and wondered exactly how straightforward she should be. Usually it was best not to give too much away. Never let the seller know how badly you want what he's offering, but in this case Mark
wasn't offering anything. She might as well just go for it, lay all of her cards on the table. She gave Mark one of her most convincing, executive sales presentation smiles. His expression didn't change. He still looked very, very doubtful.

“Well, it's not exactly bribery,” she amended. “Trent fell in love with
Velvet Nights
the minute he read it. He very badly wants to see this movie made. He admires your film work and he wants you to be the one to do it. I shouldn't tell you this, but you already suspect it anyway: he'll offer you whatever you want. Just name it.”

“How about the moon? I think it's the only thing he's left out.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Surely you see how advantageous this deal would be to you,” Lindsay said persuasively, though she was more convinced than ever that she was fighting a losing battle. His jaw was set and there was no sign of those devastating dimples she'd grown to love. Whatever his reasons, Mark had made his decision a lifetime ago and he'd read the contract now only to humor her.

“How? I already have enough money for
the life-style I like. You know how much I love it here. I have no desire to spend three or four months in L.A. or on location. Without trying to sound immodest, I already have an established reputation as a screenwriter. What exactly is this deal giving me that I want or need?”

Lindsay didn't have an answer for him, though she tried every argument she could think of, including Trent's only partially facetious offer to buy him a mountain all his own. Mark didn't even smile and the end result was the same: he remained stubbornly adamant; he was determined not to do the movie for Trent Studios.

“I won't do the movie for anyone else, if that's what you're thinking.”

“But why?”

“
Velvet Nights
is very personal to me,” he said tersely, all of the laughter gone from his dark-as-onyx eyes as he confirmed what Grace Tynan had intuitively suspected. His lips were set in a tight, angry, forbidding line. He wore a fierce expression that almost anyone else would have quickly decided to respect.

But Lindsay carefully ignored the ominous
look on his face and tried to remember that she was here to do a job, not to worry about Mark Channing's personal hang-ups or her own growing reluctance to back him into a corner. She had to admit it was getting increasingly difficult to do. If it had been up to her, she would have thrown in the towel long ago and told him to forget the whole thing if it was going to make him this unhappy. But it wasn't up to her. Trent had made that much very clear. So, instead of following her instincts as a woman, she drew on her skills as a tough negotiator and tried one last time.

“That's all the more reason you should be the one to do the screenplay,” she urged, appealing to his ego. “You can see that it's done exactly the way it should be done. I might even be able to get Trent to bend on giving you total creative control.”

“Don't you understand yet?” Mark said, with an explosive fury that seemed to fill the air with electricity. A low growl rumbled in Shadow's throat and he inched protectively closer to Lindsay, just as Mark threw the contract back at her. It fluttered down onto Shadow's back.

“I don't give a damn about creative control,”
he shouted, then added with cold emphasis, “Listen to me closely. Read my lips if you have to: I do not want to see
Velvet Nights
done as a film at all.”

Suddenly, with his sarcastic, biting words being hurled at her, Lindsay's frustration reached its limits. She was tired of being torn between her growing feelings for Mark and her obligations to Trent Studios. If she hadn't been so damned professional, she probably would have burst into tears. It was what she felt like doing. Instead, she lashed back at him.

“Then why in God's name did Morrie negotiate with us for the rights?” she demanded furiously. “The man's your agent. Not that I'd put it past him, but surely he wasn't running around making deals behind your back.”

Mark gave her a wan smile. “You've met Morrie. He doesn't exactly listen, once you start talking in amounts over six figures. His eyes glaze over and he begins calculating his percentage.”

Lindsay's eyes widened in amazement. “Then there was no bidding war among the studios?”

“Is that what he told Trent?”

“Of course. Trent wanted
Velvet Nights
very badly anyway, but hearing that a bunch of other studios wanted it as well made him crazy. He's obsessed with winning.”

“Obviously Morrie knew that,” Mark said dryly.

Lindsay was still trying to grasp the exact extent of Morrie's devious manipulations. “But you had told him the book wasn't up for grabs?”

“Approximately three thousand times,” he confirmed. “But Trent Langston came after him and Morrie couldn't resist the action. Now he's trying to convince me to go along with it, to agree not only to selling the movie rights to Trent Studios, but to writing the screenplay as well.”

He gazed directly into Lindsay's eyes, which were flashing sparks like an emerald held under a spotlight.

“Morrie and Langston both knew exactly how I felt,” he said gently, which only increased her feeling of being had by a couple of scheming pros. “I had told them in language that would have curled your toes, just so there'd be no misunderstanding. They decided to give it another try anyway and
picked you to come in here and make me change my mind. I guess they figured I'd be more susceptible to a pretty woman.”

“And here I thought Trent selected me for my superb negotiating skills,” she retorted dryly, knowing perfectly well that Mark was right on target. Trent had thought she'd use her feminine wiles to accomplish what he and Morrie hadn't been able to. He had, quite literally, thrown her out as bait. She'd have a few words to say to him about that when she got back to Los Angeles and, if Mark thought his language had been colorful, he should stop by and listen to the vocabulary she had in mind.

“It's nothing personal, bright eyes,” Mark said more quietly. “They could have sent over the entire studio line-up of starlets and it wouldn't have made any difference. I don't want any part of this project.”

Lindsay studied him closely. One part of her responded to his obvious anguish, to his attempt even now to make sure that she hadn't taken his cutting barb or his rejection personally. It was the part of her that was falling in love with him, the part of her she was fighting a losing battle to ignore.

The part of her that worked for Trent Studios, the part that knew as well as anyone in the business how to cajole a reluctant actor or producer or writer into making a deal knew she was missing one critical piece of information, the piece that would make the whole puzzle fall into place and lead to a contract. What about
Velvet Nights
was making Mark Channing balk as he'd never done before over selling the rights to one of his bestsellers or writing the screenplay for it himself?

Even knowing that the issue was volatile and that she was risking his wrath by pursuing it, she decided to find that missing piece of information. She had to know—both professionally and, far more importantly, for herself and any future she hoped to have with him. The sudden, blink-of-an-eye discovery that she did want a future with this man astounded her, but it was not something she could take the time right now to explore. She had to get some more answers.

“Mark,” she said softly. “Why does
Velvet Nights
mean so much to you? Why is it tearing you apart to even talk about it?”

His dark eyes widened and he regarded her
incredulously. “Haven't you even read the damned book?”

She winced at the justifiably harsh condemnation in his tone. “No,” she admitted reluctantly. “Trent sent me after you before I had a chance. He didn't even give me a copy.”

Mark shook his head wearily, then got up slowly and went down the hall to his den. When he came back, he had the book in his hand. He gave it to her and said quietly, “When you've read it, we'll talk again. I'm going out for a while. I need some fresh air.”

Lindsay watched him go out into the gathering twilight and howling wind with a heaviness in her heart. She had a feeling the two of them had lost something today, something elusive, rare and wonderful that had been within their grasp. She wondered wistfully if they'd ever be able to recapture the fragile trust, the easy camaraderie they'd built between them so quickly.

Then, determinedly pushing aside the futile, unanswerable questions that nagged at her, she settled comfortably on the sofa and opened
Velvet Nights
. From the first page of the thick volume she was absorbed by the tenderness, the emotional intensity and the gripping
writing style that was so filled with imagery and love that she felt she knew the characters at once and shared their zany romance, their laughter and their wildly impetuous adventures. She could understand why Trent wanted this book so badly. It was an old-fashioned love story, filled with passion, an engaging humor and electric tension.

Lindsay hardly noticed when Mark came back, set a sandwich and cup of coffee beside her and went on to his own room. She was up the rest of the night reading the book and, when dawn broke through the darkness, she was huddled in a corner of the sofa, tears streaming down her face.

Her tears were not only for the characters in the book, but for Mark. She had realized almost from the outset that this had been a thinly veiled account of his own very special love story and when she reached the horribly tragic ending it wrenched her heart.

Reading the novel explained so much. His reluctance to see such personal intimacy played out on a movie screen. His quiet, solemn moods, when the world around him seemed to disappear. His understanding and compassion when she'd revealed her own
childhood loss and admitted the effect it had had on her ability to love. Mark had suffered a similar, excruciatingly painful loss of someone he had loved very deeply and yet he had chosen to go on living. He wanted the same for her.

“What did you think?” he asked quietly, suddenly appearing in front of her. He was wearing faded, form-fitting jeans and another of those soft wool shirts, this one in an emerald green and black plaid that emphasized his own bold coloring. This morning, though, he looked pale and haggard, a shadow of a beard on his cheeks. She knew instinctively that he hadn't slept either.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly. “I had no idea.”

He shrugged. “You were just doing your job.”

She shook her head. “I'm not sorry about that. I'm sorry about what happened. You must have loved her very much.”

He nodded, his lips tightly compressed, his eyes haunted. “I did.”

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

“It's all in the book.”

“Not all of it, Mark,” she retorted softly. “Remember what you said to me the other night: it can't be over, if it's still making you cry.”

“I don't cry. Not anymore.”

“Maybe not. But there's too much pain left in your eyes. I've seen it night after night, when I've walked down the hall to go to bed and left you sitting in here, staring into the fire. I'm seeing it again right now. Please, talk to me.”

She paused, looked straight into his eyes and, after taking a deep breath, said quietly and with complete candor, “I love you, Mark, and I want to understand.”

He didn't react to her words. It was almost as though she hadn't admitted at last that she loved him. If it hadn't been for the sorrow she saw in his eyes, she might have been hurt that he'd taken her admission so casually. Instead she simply waited.

Eventually he sank wearily down next to her and gazed blankly into the fire. Lindsay sat quietly, wanting to touch him, certain that she didn't dare. When the words finally began to come, they were jerky, awkward phrases, not at all like the glib chatter at which Mark was so good. Tumbling out, one after the
other, taut with emotion, the words shed light where shadows had been in the book.

“I met Alicia in Switzerland. She was the gentlest, most sensitive woman I'd ever met. From the very first we were totally compatible. She understood my need to be alone and yet when we were together there was fire and passion and excitement and laughter.

“So much laughter,” he recalled wistfully. “I don't think I ever saw her cry or make anyone else cry. She was always playing pranks, livening things up, issuing crazy challenges. She was Katharine Hepburn, Zelda Fitzgerald and the prom queen all rolled into one. There was nothing she wouldn't dare to do, no place she wouldn't go. We spent our winters in Switzerland, where I could write and she could ski, and in the summer we traveled. You can't begin to imagine what it was like.”