Coming Attractions (10 page)

He didn’t like that he had made her
tense up and he hated that they had to be opponents. Things were so much better
when the two of them played nicely together. If only there was some middle
ground.

There was no room for compromise,
he reminded himself. Forcing himself to get on with the unpalatable task at
hand, he dropped his eyes to his shoes. He told himself he was looking away so
he wouldn’t have to take in her taut muscles and drawn expression, so he wouldn’t
waver. But deep inside, he knew it was shame that made him avert his gaze. She
would never entrust him with her film, let alone her body, if she knew what a
cad he was. She would not even be sitting here listening to him if she knew his
horrible secret.

“I’ve put everything I own on the
line for the…our film. Not just the company, but also my house, my yacht, my
car... Hell, if the film fails, they’ll probably take the shirt off my back.”

He glanced up, watched her evaluate
his words, and dropped his gaze to his runners once more.

“That’s quite a gamble,” she
offered cautiously.

“There are two reasons I made that
gamble,” he told his Nikes steadily. “One is that I believe in the film—your
film. But you already know that.”

He sensed her nod, holding her
breath, as though she knew there was something weighty coming.

“The other reason is that I need
money. Lots of money. More money than I can make out of fifty art-house films.
And I need it fast.” His running shoes didn’t respond to his shameful
admission, so he looked up again. He watched her mind race, slicking over the
possibilities. It was as though her thoughts were scrolling by in subtitles—
Gambling debts? Blackmail? Drug habit?

“It’s nothing illegal, nothing
dodgy,” he assured her, and forced himself to look her in the face, despite the
squirming indignity of his admission. “But it’s real and it’s critical and...
Look, let’s just say I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s a matter of life and
death.”

She paused for a few moments,
taking in what he said. Weighing up his words. Evaluating his body language.
Turning his confession this way and that in her mind. Assessing it.

“So,” she said at last. “I have a
mission to tell the truth and you have a mission to make money fast.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“And to make money fast, we need a
movie with more action, more violence, and more sex.”

“To guarantee success at the box
office, we need those elements, yes.”

“But those elements do not reflect
the truth.”

“As you see it.”

“As I see it. It sounds like we’re
at an impasse,” she said.

“It does. But—”

“No buts. I won’t allow this movie
to progress as anything but a faithful representation of the truth as I
understand it.”

There was no heat in her tone, none
of her earlier defensiveness, just an unvarnished statement of fact.

“So you’ve said, Cara, but—”

“Could the film make money without
your changes?”

“Look… No. Maybe…”

“Have you considered finding
another film to make?”

He banged his fist against the
chair leg. He worked hard not to flinch.
 
“There’s no time! And besides, do you know how
rare a screenplay like yours is? This is a once in a lifetime script, Cara. I’ve
put all my eggs—my house, my car, right down to my freaking cufflinks—into this
particular basket. If we pull the pin now, I’m screwed. If we ditch the
project...”

He didn’t have to say the words. They
echoed silently around the room
. Someone
will die
.

His stare returned to his shoes.
Eyelets, laces, logos, tread...

For long minutes, neither of them
spoke. At last, he turned to her, capturing her gaze with his own.

“At least think about what I’ve
said,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet and walking away.

Chapter
Nine

Levi was doing a lot of that,
lately—walking away. And if they couldn’t come to some resolution over the
screenplay, she suspected he would be walking away one more time, forever.

Cara was choked with tension,
twisted with conflict. Her feet wore tracks in the shaggy cream rug of the
study. The sound of persistent rain on the roof was doing her head in. She’d
have given her leather jacket to spend a few hours outside, riding off this
stress. Then again, she didn’t have a bike. That thought just notched up her
angst and she felt as though her head might detonate. Why did everything have
to be so damn complicated?

When Levi had held her close as
they danced in the candlelit kitchen last night, she had told him that she
liked him. No sooner had the words left her lips than she recognized the lie in
them. Like cheap perfume or imitation leather, something rang false in the
reality before her. The realization jolted her into understanding, and the
truth had been like a cascade of cool water, cleansing and chilling all at
once. What she felt for him was more than “like,” she was forced to admit. Far,
far more.

As she trailed up and down the hearth
rug, her mind drifted over the past few days—her instant attraction to Levi
when he’d discovered her naked in bed, his protective manner over the theft of
her motorcycle, the way he listened to her side of her argument with her sister,
and his propensity to pamper her with food and dancing, providing anything she
needed, almost before she knew she needed it...

There was something compelling
about a man who could be so in tune with her, so generous and so giving.

Then there was the big duo—his
utter faith in her film and his downright heady ability to take her body to
places she had never dreamed existed.

Yes, her feelings for him were more
than “like.”

She thought about the way he had
looked as they slowly waltzed the small back kitchen together. Manly features,
tan skin, a sensual mouth, and stubbled jaw. She thought about the dirty blond
hair falling becomingly over his forehead, the curve of his ear with the faint
ancient pierced hole, the beauty spot on his neck just above his left shoulder,
the scar.

She recalled the feel of him
against her, the play of his muscles as he drew her closer, the graze of his
cheek against hers, the hardening evidence of his arousal as they moved
together in a courtship dance as ancient as time itself.

Cara paused in her pacing, felt the
rapid thrumming of her heart, the shortness of her breath, the ache deep inside
her.

It really was love, she conceded
quietly to herself. With stealth and cunning, the emotion had somehow crept up
on her, breached her defenses, insinuated itself in her heart, and taken up
residence without so much as alerting her normally heavily guarded feelings or
setting off any alarm in her emotional garrison. Somehow, she had fallen prey
to Levi Callister and the feelings he engendered in her. And somehow, she was
going to have to deal with this development.

Love was something she didn’t need,
didn’t have time for. She was an individualist. Everything she did, she did
solo. Hell, she rode a motorcycle and she wasn’t looking for a pillion. She
couldn’t even keep a cat. The last thing she needed was to find herself boxed
in to some sad, conventional life where the day boiled down to arguments over
the remote or who left the milk out.
Imagine
having to remember to be home for dinner at a certain time...
The idea of
having to account for her whereabouts was abhorrent. And the thought of keeping
tabs on someone else was equally distasteful. She had learned a long time ago
not to count on anyone but herself. And she was happy on her own, doing things
her way, not answering to anyone, least of all some man... Wasn’t she?

Her mind switched back to the
previous night and the smell of fresh bread baking, the flicker of candles and
the feel of a man in her arms, and she knew she was lying to herself. She loved
Levi and all that loving him might entail. She was suddenly consumed by the
most profound loneliness she had ever experienced. She wanted him, a life with
him, in the worst and most dire way. For a moment, in the study, she could
almost taste that life, and it brought tears to her eyes. Her heart clenched.
Her soul keened. It took all her strength not to run to him and pour out her
newly minted feelings. Beg him to have her. Beseech him to love her back.

The pictures were a fast montage
across the screen of her mind—the two of them grilling steaks and fixing salad
together on a sunset deck, planting flower beds side by side, a dinner party
with friends, long walks on a beach, maybe playing with a dog, the pair of them
painting a nursery.

The surprising ideas were so far
removed from the existence Cara knew that she could barely catch hold of them,
let alone examine them more deeply. So, she just let them slide by and let her
newfound longing settle a little more firmly in her chest.

But was it possible to be so surely
and so deeply in love so soon? It had only been days! And how did Levi feel
about her? That question was like a slap. She had no idea if she meant something
to him or if, for him, what they shared was just a casual fling. Hadn’t she
herself called it a mistake? And a stupid one at that? How she wished she could
snatch those words back and chew them to bits.

Plus, there was more than just the
emotional component to consider, she realized. There was a practical issue to
be sorted in terms of the very real and completely unresolved matter of the
movie. Did loving him mean she needed to change her stance, relax her hard line
about the plot? Should she stick to her truth crusade or should she offer him
some leeway when it came to the film’s content?

After all, he had confessed to her
the importance of the film’s commercial success. He had not hidden his personal
stake in the financial victory he sought. He had told her openly and honestly
what he needed. He had been straight with her about his reasons. She had to
respect him for his candor. But did loving him mean she had to put his needs
before her own?

Her mind tipped back to the rainy
night she had lost her baby and unwittingly birthed the film, and then she
overlaid the brand new image she had conjured of herself and Levi painting a
nursery. The imagined sunshine yellow walls and glossy white architraves of
some beautiful old home left her breathless. Did she dare want a home and
family with Levi? Did she dare risk the agony of loss?

And if she did dare, shouldn’t she
cut him some slack and allow him to make the changes he needed to make? Wasn’t
love about self-sacrifice? Putting the other person’s needs before one’s own?

Then again, there was no guarantee
that if she did put Levi’s needs before her own that there would be any glowing
future for them as a couple. While she was sure he would be more than pleased
to continue their liaison during the making of the movie, if only to keep her
sweet and compliant—but also, she was savvy enough to realize, because the sex
was amazing—what happened afterwards was anything but certain.

Perhaps she should she demand
details of his supposed life and death plight? Maybe his cause was something
she wouldn’t support. Maybe he was keeping the details from her because he knew
that she wouldn’t be sympathetic to his campaign. Perhaps, for example, he was
trying to rescue a heartless murderer from death row and needed money for legal
fees. Or perhaps he was exaggerating and his purpose wasn’t as ominous as he
suggested.

She shook her head. Clearly, the stress
was messing with her mind. Somehow, she couldn’t see Levi’s fight as anything
less than real and honorable. In which case, she circled back to the crux again—didn’t
she have an obligation to support him in his quest to make the film a box
office success? Was that what love meant?

Then again, if she supported Levi,
wouldn’t she be doing exactly what her sister accused her of—selling her mother
out, tainting her memory, tarnishing her name? And wasn’t following her own
convictions important, too? How could she ever hold up her end of a
relationship if she couldn’t even be true to herself?

But Levi needed her help…

Cara shook her head again and
flopped down into one of the leather chairs. How had things become so difficult
so quickly? She’d taken one baby step over an emotional line and now her
priorities were in total turmoil.

****

The letter had been wedged between
Rapunzel
and
The Star-Money
and just the sight of it sent weird tingles
skittering down Cara’s spine, as though her very being knew that she’d just
stumbled across something explosive. If she’d been a Pixar movie heroine,
swirls of mystic purple glittering smoke would have twirled up from the letter,
complete with tense mood music and harp sounds.

The envelope was thin and old—torn,
brittle, discolored. The handwriting was unfamiliar, the stamp foreign, and the
postmark faded and smudged beyond recognition.

Cara’s fingers trembled as she
pulled it from the pages of the book. Strangely reluctant to open it, she
turned it over and over in her hands as though it might reveal its contents by
osmosis.

Her heart was beating a staccato
rhythm and she could feel sweat beginning to gather on her forehead and under
her arms.

Finally, curiosity outweighed
hesitation and she held her breath as she gently inserted her index finger to
pry the ripped edges of envelope’s top apart. For a moment, the sides stuck
closed and then, with the slightest pressure, they peeled away from one another
and she could peer in.

Inside was a single sheet of stiff,
translucent paper, folded into eighths. Shakily, she fished it out and closed
her eyes briefly, knowing at some bone deep level, that the words on this page
would set off a chain of events that would change things—change her—profoundly.
Cara had no idea whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. She whispered
something nonsensical under her breath, half prayer, half profanity, and
unfolded the paper.

It took her a moment to decipher
the bold blue handwriting, but once she got the hang of it, she read quickly,
sucking the guts out of the letter as fast as she could.

What she discovered left her sick
and breathless.

The letter, dated just before Cara’s
fifteenth birthday, was from someone who could only have been Alessandra’s
lover.

****

Right cross, left jab, right
uppercut. There might be another way out of this mess, Levi realized as he
pounded out his frustrations on the punching bag in the makeshift gym in the
basement. Funny how vigorous exercise could bring flashes of lucidity, he
thought. Then again, other kinds of physical activity brought nothing but
mind-blowing, thought-stopping bliss, he reflected wryly, failing once more to
keep thoughts of Cara and her delectable body out of his mind.

He decided to come at their
quandary from a different direction.

Issue one was Cara’s need to keep
the movie as true to life as she could. As much as her steadfast position
pissed him off and thwarted his own plans, he couldn’t help but respect her
tenacity and integrity. She refused to be swayed by his impassioned pleas or by
the promise of wealth and professional success. She stood by her beliefs
adamantly and unfailingly, no matter what he threw her way. Annoying, yes, but
totally freaking admirable.

Issue two was his own financial
dilemma. He hadn’t been kidding when he told Cara he needed megabucks
mega-soon. And he hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told her someone’s life
was resting in the balance and it was on his head to make sure a miracle
happened.

Right now, Bronte was lying in a
hospital bed, pale and still, wandering alone through her unconscious mind. He’d
promised her she would be okay. He’d promised her that he’d make things right.
But he didn’t know if she had heard him. Regardless, it was up to him to get
his shit together and come up with some serious moolah. Enough for an operation
that would provide a tiny chance that she would one day wake up. After all,
Levi was the stupid bastard who had put her in the coma. It was up to him to
get her out of it.

Left hook, right hook. Levi punched
harder, slamming the bag again and again until his back and shoulders screamed.
A good boxer needed focus, coordination, power, speed and endurance, he
reminded himself. But today, he didn’t care about being a good boxer. Today was
only about smashing and thumping and pummelling—anything to take the jagged
edge off his frustration.

The alternative solution again flashed
through the mire of his aggression and fury and, this time, he paid it more
attention. The answer came into his mind in a picture. He saw an arm, elbow
deep in water. Slowly, the limb withdrew from the water, ripples emanating as
the closed fist surfaced. Water streamed from the between the fingers as they
uncurled to reveal a dripping palm holding a clutch of glittering gold coins.

Abruptly, he stopped punching and
stood gasping as the bag swung like a lazy pendulum.

Holy moly. He could find the
missing fortune! If Alessandra had left her lavish legacy on the Flinders’ Keep
property, then, technically—since he’d bought the house and contents in a
bundle—it would belong to him. He could skim the money he needed for Bronte’s
operation off the top, return the rest to Cara and Mia, and make
Lost Treasure
exactly the way Cara
wanted to make it. Perfect!