“Having trouble finding it?” he asked a touch sarcastically, as if he knew she was a heartbeat from inhaling the citrusy scent of his deodorant.
“I confess. I’m actually a reporter for a celebrity magazine doing an expose on independent film directors. And their luggage.” She was rambling. Spitting out whatever came to her mind because her fingers had closed around a small, square box with a hinged lid that every woman on the planet could identify. Blindfolded. “You caught me.”
She dropped the ring box, but her hand still stung. Why did an engagement ring in the bag of a man she’d just met put a lump in her throat? So he wasn’t engaged to Kyla yet, but obviously it was only a matter of time. Better all the way around to accept that he was completely unavailable. Much, much better. Then she could make a clean break. Wipe him from her mind once he left her in Dallas.
He glanced at her over the top of his sunglasses. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She yanked the only electronic device from the bottom of the bag and waved it, hoping it wasn’t a newfangled garage-door opener. “Got it. Let’s see what we have here. How do I turn it on?”
“You’ve never used an MP3 player?” Amusement colored his question. “Touch the screen to wake it up.”
“It’s asleep?” Fascinated, she flipped the gizmo over and right-side up again. “Does it snore and hog all the covers, too?”
His rich laughter washed over her and she wallowed in it. He reached over, slid a fingertip across the device and colors illuminated the screen. Colors she barely registered because his arm pressed against her shoulder, sparking like a firecracker in a Coke bottle as he deftly tapped the MP3 player.
The brush of body parts was totally innocent but the pang low in her belly unleashed a flood of longing more akin to original sin.
“There’s the song list,” he offered nonchalantly. “Pick one.”
She glanced down at the screen, contracting her diaphragm until she could speak again. “I don’t know any of these artists.” Was that her voice? She cleared her throat and prayed it eliminated the huskiness. “Any Kenny Chesney or Miranda Lambert?”
Nope, still croaking like a late-night ad for a 1-900 number.
“There’s no country music on this and there’s not going to be.” He took the player from her and stuck it in the holder on the dash. Two taps later, a stringed instrument wailed through the speakers, the melody so instantly heartbreaking, it stole her breath. She’d never imagined such passion could be poured into music.
“The musician is Johannes Linstead,” he said. “Do you like it?”
“It’s so beautiful, it hurts my chest. Is it weird that it makes me feel like weeping?”
With two fingers, he slid off his sunglasses and impaled her with stormy, liquid eyes, searching her face with an immeasurable intensity. “The music makes me feel like that, too.”
She couldn’t break their locked gazes. Didn’t want to. A whole other world lived inside his eyes, a world she wanted to fall into.
“It’ll be our secret,” he whispered and snapped his attention back to the road as he obscured his eyes with the sunglasses again.
Her heart beat so fast, she was shocked it wasn’t audible. She stared at his profile. What had just happened? It had been A Charged Moment. Thrilling—for her, at least. But what did it mean?
She might be from Nowheresville but she could follow instructions. “Instead of assuming again, I’m going to ask. Why does it seem like you’re flirting with me sometimes?”
“I am.”
“Why?” Additional words, phrases, ideas escaped her. In fact, it had been a surprise her tongue worked at all.
“Why not?” He lifted a shoulder. “I like you. You’re fun. Beautiful.”
He thought she was beautiful? The jumpy crickets stampeded through her stomach.
Stuff like this didn’t happen to her. Oh, she’d had her share of boyfriends—small-town, small-minded boys who wouldn’t know romance if it bit them in their unimaginative butts.
The difference between them and this enthralling, charming man beside her was the difference between Ford and Ferrari.
But he wasn’t finished. “What does it hurt? It’s harmless and has zero calories. Besides, you’re flirting back.”
Harmless. Nothing more than sport for the beautiful people. Yes, Kristian Demetrious was exactly like his car. Smooth, exotic and his engine was equally unfathomable.
The crickets died a quick death. “Of course I’m flirting back. You’re driving. I’d hate to be dumped on the side of the road.”
He paused for a beat and didn’t laugh. “Women don’t flirt with me. They slip me room keys and follow me into the bathroom. Flirting with you is the polar opposite of that. I enjoy it. There aren’t any expectations. It’s safe.”
Now she was safe. How appealing.
She needed to throw it in reverse, distance herself, or eventually he’d drive right over her heart, flattening it like an unfortunate armadillo too transfixed by the bright lights of the freeway to see the splat coming. “Tell me about Kyla. Where did you meet her?”
He glowered, tightening the lines of his cheeks and mouth, and the expression looked wrong on him. “I don’t want to talk about Kyla.”
The reference to his glamorous soon-to-be fiancée was like a shock of icy water. The atmosphere in the car cooled and grew icicles. Fantastic. Exactly as she’d intended. Now she wasn’t thinking about that seething, charged moment. Or the sparkling weight of his arm against hers.
“Well, I don’t want to talk about Kyla, either. Tell me about your next movie.” That should be an innocuous enough subject, and she’d been dying to revisit it after seeing his entire demeanor transform upon mentioning it at Pearl’s.
“I’d rather not talk for a while.”
She flinched at the bite in his tone. “Sure. No problem.”
The less they talked, the better, because then his beyond-sexy accent wouldn’t skim down her spine and take up residence inside, heating every pore of her skin as if she’d crawled into the sun.
They barely knew each other. They were strangers soon to part ways and only thrown together because she lacked the fortitude to leave Little Crooked Creek on her own. What else could they possibly be to each other?
Road signs for Van Horn flashed by twice before Kris sighed. “Sorry. I can be a jerk.”
She waved dismissively. “Don’t apologize for not wanting me to pry into your life. I’m sure people do that all the time, and you’d like to keep some things private.”
“That’s true, but it’s not the reason I’m a jerk. It’s complicated.”
“Complicated is my specialty.”
He grinned and shot her another of those enigmatic glances over the top of his sunglasses. “Have I mentioned how much I like you?”
“Yes, but you should definitely tell me again.” Maybe she was getting better at the sport of flirting. The trick was not to let on how that kind of statement thrummed straight to the place between her thighs.
He bit his lip, contemplating. She had to avert her eyes from the sight of his white teeth sinking into flesh.
“The problem is,” he said, “Kyla’s starring in my next film,
Visions of Black.
I guess I’m kind of touchy about it because of the unconventional demands around the financing. Without the right backing, the project’s dead. The downside of not being affiliated with a studio.”
“Contract negotiations are shaky. I get it. Is it worth whatever your investor is demanding?”
He froze, and her hand flew to his arm before she’d realized it. She wanted to comfort him but had no idea why.
She did know one thing—Kris wasn’t and never would be a stranger. There was something between them. A recognition. A mystical draw she couldn’t ignore or pretend to have imagined.
“Is it worth it?” He exhaled and nodded slowly. “To have a chance to direct this film, which will solidify my career and put me on the A-list? Yes, it is. I’ve been busting my back for years to get this shot.”
The raw longing and aspiration carved into his expression hit her in a wave way hotter than the music. She swallowed, hard. Her fantasy imploded and shrank down to one crystalline shard of desire—that he’d look at her like that. She tucked it away before it grew too sharp.
“That’s a lot of mileage for one film.” No doubt he’d be successful, as soon as his investor was happy. “Out of curiosity, what is he asking you to do?”
A tiny muscle in his forehead jumped. “Announce that Kyla and I are engaged.”
Four
K
ris could have gone at least another hundred miles without mentioning that. Next he’d be telling VJ it was all a publicity stunt, one he strongly suspected Kyla had talked Abrams into as a method to either push her way into Kris’s bed again or drive him insane. Maybe both. Kris assumed she’d split with Guy Hansen and was on the hunt for another warm, male body, but, knowing Kyla, she could have other ulterior motives. Until he figured out her agenda, it was better to stay off the subject.
Regardless of who had devised the fake engagement, he recognized the value of Kyla’s attachment to
Visions
and had to suck it up. Without her in the starring role and without the publicity, Abrams would pull out. Without Abrams’s experience making blockbusters, Kris’s career couldn’t move to the next level. Period.
“Oh.” As if fascinated, VJ stared out the window at the landscape dotted with lumpy cactus and heat shimmers, which she’d doubtlessly seen a million times.
VJ was at a loss for words. That was unfortunate, but the less said about Kyla and engagements, the better.
“Hungry?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No. Thanks.”
“Is that your wallet talking or your stomach?” He glanced at her, certain it was the former. He’d never met someone so determined not to accept nice gestures.
Her forehead scrunched. “Are you practicing your ESP?”
“Yeah.” He turned back to the road. “For my next trick, I’m going to levitate.”
The joke went over like his last film, with zero reaction and a lot of white knuckles. Where had all the fun and flirting gone? From the moment VJ appeared out of a swirl of dust, the awful temper he’d been in since leaving L.A. had fled and he didn’t want it to come back.
After a few minutes of silence so loud his eardrums hurt, she said, “So. Kyla’s a lucky woman. I’m sure you’ll be really happy together. How are you going to propose to her? Put the ring in a champagne glass?” Her tone was bright and saccharine-fake.
Kyla had her spooked. Inexplicably, he opened his mouth to tell her that he and Kyla had split up a while ago. But, he closed it. He valued his relationship with Jack Abrams and hoped to partner on many more films with the man. VJ probably wouldn’t tell but accidents happened and his job was to drive positive press. Not put the smile back on the face of his desert mirage. “I haven’t thought about it. I’ll probably give her the ring and ask.”
VJ gaped. “You can’t do that. It’s a
proposal,
not asking her to dinner at a dress-up place. She’s dreamed of it her entire life. It has to be perfect. Something she can tell your kids and grandkids over and over because it’s so outrageously romantic. You have to do better.”
“Are you kidding? You’ve never met Kyla, I realize. But come on.” He downshifted to go around a slow-moving cattle truck.
She flipped a spiral of cinnamon hair over her shoulder. “You don’t think she’s dreamed about her one and only proposal her whole life?”
One and only? Huge disparity in world views there. Kyla had already been married once to an Australian actor, a fact VJ’s celebrity magazines had clearly omitted. Before he could mention it, he suddenly envisioned stepping on puppies. Treading lightly might be a better idea than squashing her idealism. “Have you?”
“Of course! Like a million times.”
Her face took on the glow he’d been missing and his gut clenched. His reaction to her was so pure and elemental, with no expectations. Which was why he enjoyed it—no danger of it going anywhere. So she was the romantic sort, envisioning her new last name and assigning genders to her unborn children. Delusions which led to heartbreak when the passion faded. Figured.
While nothing about relationships made for his favorite topic of discussion, if he got to bask in VJ’s fresh smile, he could buck up. “Tell me.”
“About my dream proposal?”
“You’ve imagined it a million times. Should be easy.”
Leather squealed as she sank down into the seat. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to disappear into it. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”
“No, I won’t.” His curiosity flared. Ever since he’d mentioned the engagement stunt, she’d withdrawn. He wanted her in-your-face honesty back. “I want to know. Everything about you interests me.”
She shot him a sidelong glance behind her sunglasses. “You’re not allowed to laugh, okay?”
“No chance.”
She took a deep breath. “I want to get my engagement ring as a present in a huge box, so I don’t guess what’s in it. When I open it, the little box will be inside. Then I’d realize.”
That
was the proposal she’d imagined a million times? “Sounds very nice.”
And boring. A hundred scenarios sprang to mind, all of which eclipsed that in terms of romantic proposals. In seconds, the entire scene unfolded in his head and he started dropping in thematic elements like roses and soft lighting. Maybe that was the key to the theme for
Visions of Black—
lighting.
“Beats the one I got.”
She’d done it again. Pulled him out from behind the lens with an intriguing statement. “Someone proposed to you?”
“Walt Phillips.” Her lip curled. “It wasn’t really a proposal. More of a statement. Like it was foregone we’d get married because we’d been dating since high school. How long have you and Kyla been together?”
Back to that again. “I don’t know.” He tapped the steering wheel with restless fingers. “I don’t pay attention to stuff like that.”
“You don’t celebrate anniversaries?”
“There’s more than one?”
“Anniversary of your first date, anniversary of your first kiss. The first time you made love, the first time you...” She trailed off as he raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Nobody kept track of those milestones. “Nothing. Are you sure you don’t want breakfast?”
“Are you sure you want to marry someone you aren’t in love with?”
The car veered toward the center line and he overcorrected, shooting the passenger-side tires past the white line of the shoulder, jouncing them both until he got the wheel under control. Precisely the reason he stayed behind the camera—so he couldn’t be caught off guard. “Seems like you’re the one practicing ESP. What makes you think I’m not in love with Kyla?”
“Please.” She snorted. “I don’t need ESP to know you’re not in love with her. Even if you are from Hollywood, you wouldn’t be flirting with me if you were. You’d remember the first time you kissed her. The first time you held her all night. You wouldn’t be able to stand being separated from her, yet this car’s got a V-8 and you’re barely driving the speed limit. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do the math.”
He bit back a nervous laugh. He’d been angling to get her smart mouth back. Just not with that much punch. “Would you like to drive since I’m doing such a poor job?”
“Deflection. Yet another obvious factor. You don’t even like to talk about Kyla.”
While he might prefer to stay behind the camera, VJ never let him retreat. Women usually gave up trying to engage him after several unsuccessful rounds. VJ didn’t have to try—she was naturally engaging. With renewed respect, he eyed her. “Maybe because my relationship with her is private.”
“Or because you don’t have much of a relationship. Marriage is forever. You should only marry someone you’re desperately in love with. Someone you can’t live without.”
Actually, he’d be ecstatic to be desperately in
like
with Kyla. They were going to be spending a lot of time together, after all, filming the movie and doing public appearances. At some point, he should probably tell Kyla he didn’t hold the affair with Guy against her. He still stewed about it occasionally, but only because Hansen was an idiot.
“That’s not love, that’s passion. Which is all hormones anyway and I can’t think of a worse reason to marry someone. Passion dies.”
And when it died, it ruined everything.
“Are you looped?” she asked. “Love and passion are tied together and the
only
reason to marry someone. Clearly, your education is lacking in the romance department.”
She stroked his arm and it wasn’t accidental. His eyes unfocused as heat radiated from the contact of her fingers. His groin tightened. Again.
Not only did VJ keep him engaged, she poked at something elemental inside. In the past, attraction had led to satisfaction, not this raw yearning for...more.
“Oh, I see,” he said when his mouth stopped being too dry to talk. “You’re an expert on romance.”
“I am, actually.” She seemed pleased with his insight. “We have hours to kill until we reach Dallas. I’ll be happy to give you some instruction.”
Romance instruction at the hands of Victoria Jane. The idea should have been hilarious. It wasn’t. “How did you get to be an expert on romance? Walt Phillips?”
“As if. Romance novels.”
“Books?”
“Books are a perfectly legitimate method for learning. That is why they use textbooks in school.”
Now he had that image stuck in his head. VJ in a classroom wearing a school uniform and clutching a tattered paperback with a half-naked Viking on the cover. Naturally, that progressed to imagining VJ half-naked. The camera would love the color of her skin and capture the perfect lines of her body with a reverence he’d seldom experienced behind the lens.
“Go for it, then,” he said. “I can’t wait to learn about romance according to VJ.”
“Well.” She sat up in the seat, instantly animated. “Romance has stages. A progression. You can’t dive right into bed.”
Really. Who says? VJ might need an education of her own.
With that thought, he forgot about the camera. This was his scene, and he’d maim anyone who tried to take him out of it. He was having fun. What was the harm in playing along? “Stage one. No diving into bed. Got it.”
She shook her head. “That’s not stage one. Be quiet and listen. The goal isn’t to learn the stages. It’s to understand them. Believe them. Recognize them as truth. So then it’ll be obvious you’re not in love with Kyla.”
His eyebrows flew up. “That’s the goal?”
Fantastic. He was already ahead. Never once had he mistaken what he felt for Kyla as love. Her talents were legendary and he appreciated them—both on the screen and between the sheets. But then, they’d drifted apart so long ago, he barely even remembered the latter. Maybe it hadn’t been all that spectacular.
“Yeah,” she said. “When we’re through with all the stages, you’ll admit you’re not in love with Kyla.”
VJ’s wholesomeness pricked at his sense of honor. How fair was it to play this game when he had no illusions about his relationship with Kyla?
Love and marriage had little to do with each other and neither had anything to do with him. This desert mirage had about a point zero-zero-one percent chance of convincing him differently.
“So, what if I admitted that right now?”
VJ off took her sunglasses and stared at him openly. “Clearly you didn’t understand the rules. I’m supposed to go through the stages and
then
you admit it. Why in the world would you marry Kyla if you’re not in love with her?”
“I never said I was marrying her. I said I was announcing our engagement. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Oh, pardon me for assuming an engagement leads to a wedding.” She made a disgusted little noise. “That’s your problem in a nutshell. You think these things are all separate and they’re not. You need romance instruction worse than anyone I’ve ever met.”
He couldn’t stop the grin. “Then educate me.”
“I’m not sure it’ll help. You might be too far gone.” She licked her lips and faced forward. “Are you going to marry her or not?”
“It’s...”
Complicated.
When had that become the norm for his life? “Look, I know I said to ask instead of assuming, but this is the sole exception. I’m announcing our engagement, and she’s well aware that I’m not in love with her. Leave it at that, okay?”
“Okay.” She drawled out the syllables, overloading them with meaning.
Great. She’d taken him at his word and created all sorts of assumptions. Well, if he hadn’t wanted that, he should have kept his mouth shut. But he hadn’t. She deserved as much honesty as he could give her, and now it was time to drop it.
“So, what’s stage one?”
For a beat, she didn’t respond, like she’d changed her mind about educating him.
“Attraction.” Her legs slid together and crossed, slowly, snagging his attention from the road. “A sense of awareness that wasn’t there a minute ago. Maybe you’ve known each other for years and one day, something happens. Pop! You notice how nice her eyes are or how sexy she looks in that shirt. Maybe you’re strangers, but eyes meet across a smoky room at a party and it’s a lightning bolt to the spine.”
Or an orange pickup pulls off the road and out spills a provocative sunflower with coconut-scented hair. “Hormones. Like I said.”
“If you want to be clinical.” She frowned and the shadow of a road sign threw her into murkiness, then rushed away. “Reality is much more complex. Why do your hormones react to this woman and not that woman? For example.”
Interesting point. She wasn’t spouting text from the pages of a bodice-ripper. Some analysis had gone into this. “Maybe that woman is a pain in the butt.”
“We’re still in the attraction stage. You wouldn’t know anything about the woman’s personality in a relationship at this point. That’s the next stage. Once you recognize some primal, fundamental reaction to her, then comes stage two.”
“Which is?”
“Attention.”
Subtly, she shifted closer, and below his sleeve, a firm breast brushed his biceps. A breast only covered by a thin shirt and definitely not encased in a bra.
“You pay attention to her,” she said. “Not like giving her lame flowers from Piggly Wiggly. But paying attention to stuff she likes. Music. Books she’s read. You notice little variations in the color of her skin. You give her a nickname. Remember details, like the things she says.” Her breast nudged his arm muscle with little licks of heat. “Stage one and two. You’re hot for her, and you pay attention.”
Hot. Yeah. His lungs were on fire with the effort it took not to gulp oxygen. He was swamped in the sensation of a rough cotton T-shirt against his arm, the only barrier between his skin and hers, and it was a miracle the zipper on his jeans hadn’t busted a few teeth.