Coming Attractions (7 page)

“Mia and I told each other she died
doing what she loved. That it was better to live a short fulfilling life than a
long, empty existence, pining away, regretting choices. But she was our
mom
. And she’d chosen some stupid
treasure over her own daughters. And got herself killed in the process! If she
had just waited a couple more years, Mia and I could have gone with her. She
didn’t have to choose. Just wait. And if we had gone with her, maybe we could
have saved her.”

For a second, Cara dared to take
her eyes off the blaze and chanced a glance at him. She saw only compassion in
his face. Not pity, not disgust. Reassured, she turned her eyes back to the
safety of the flames.

“It must have been hard for you,”
Levi said. As though he sensed her resistance to sharing, he remained close
enough to indicate his support, but didn’t crowd her or even touch her.

In the firelight, he looked so
solid, she thought, catching him in her peripheral vision. The play of light
and shadow over his strong features lent him an air of sturdiness and strength.
He was thoughtful, intent, focused. Like a statue, carved to fit this moment.

But he was no sculpture, she
reminded herself, reaching to stroke his cheek. He was warm flesh, not cool
marble. He was living muscle and breathing humanity. He captured her hand and
pressed a soft kiss against the back of it, holding her fingers to his mouth
for a moment so she could feel his steady breath against her skin.

“To rub salt into the wound, the
fortune she left you in her will was nowhere to be found. There was the house
and what was in it. But no money,” he said, as she drew her hand away.

For a split second, panic
flickered. He wouldn’t be the first man to use the guise of romance to dig for
information on the missing fortune. But in the still, centered place inside
her, she knew he was not that kind of man. He was secure and self-sufficient,
he was honest and honorable, and, she conceded, nobody on earth could fake the
kind of passion they had shared over the last couple of days. She only had to
look in his eyes to know that whatever it was that flared and flashed between
them was something raw and rich and real.

She let out a breath. Focused on
the strength of her intuition. Surrendered to her faith in him.

“Yes. When I started this project,
I researched her missing fortune. I couldn’t believe she would leave us
penniless when she had always promised we’d be taken care of. I was angry. I
wanted to find it. It was like I wanted compensation for having lost my mother.
But the more I read her papers and diaries, the more my journey veered into the
world of story. I found myself making connections between the facts, linking
events, making sense of her words, attributing emotions and motivations to her.
The film practically wrote itself. I was...”

She swallowed hard. He didn’t move.
Didn’t press. Just waited with utter patience for her to reassemble her
feelings.

“I was struggling with some, uh,
personal issues, and the writing felt like catharsis. For the first time, it
was like I could see inside her head. I could understand how hard it must have
been for her to bring up two little girls all alone when her heart belonged
elsewhere. But also, I could see how gut-wrenching it must have been to leave
her children. I can’t say I support her actions—who chooses jewels or scrolls
or bones over living, breathing, loving people? But I got to see how her
thought process went. I found the triggers and the turning points. I identified
the things that tethered her to us and hints of those that pulled her away.

“I never did find the fortune. I
guess Alessandra didn’t pass on the treasure hunting gene, but I did begin to
accept the fact that there was something she loved more than me, more than Mia—even
if I hated that knowledge more than anyone could imagine. But I never hated Alessandra.
I was angry, but I never hated my mom.”

“So, you want to tell the world you’re
not angry anymore?” he asked quietly.

“Sometimes, I’m still angry. I’m
human. I want to stop the speculation. I want to silence the gossip. I want to
tell the truth.” Cara’s voice was low with conviction, firm with sincerity. “They
say she was a greedy and shallow thrill-seeker. If they must judge her, let
them do it with the facts in front of them. But who are we to judge others? How
can we ever know what is truly in another’s’ heart?”

He touched her then. Reached around
her shoulders and drew her to him. When she did not resist, when she leaned into
his embrace without a struggle, he eased them both down to lie together on the
rug. She rested her head on his arm, breathing in the sweet forest scent of his
shirt, drinking in the rhythm of his heartbeat. She felt warm and sheltered
from the teeming elements outside and protected from the haunting demons
inside. Right now, Levi was keeping her safe. And right now, she was letting
him.

It was strange, she thought, that
her whole adult life had been bracketed by twin riches—there was the mysterious
treasure that had led her mother away to her death, and there was the fabled
fortune her mother had promised to leave her children, which had never
materialized.

“You sound so firm in what you say,”
he murmured. He took a slow breath, as though carefully measuring his next words.
“But I can hear a hesitation.”

She sighed softly. He was right.
There was still a hesitation. Some small part of herself—the child in her
heart, the romantic in her soul—still wanted to be wrong. She wanted to
discover that her mother had not, after all, abandoned her in favor of a
mythical treasure. That her mother had loved her and Mia more than life itself,
the way, she thought, a mother should.

Over the past two years, she had
tried to squash that wisp of hope. She had rationalized her wishes to pieces,
trampled all over her dreams with brutal facts, and she had swamped her
optimism in so much icy reality that there shouldn’t have been so much as a
breath of doubt left in her. But hope was a stubborn sentiment, she was
discovering, and belief was not easily obliterated. Once the film was done,
once she saw for herself the story of her mother’s cold ambition inexorably
play itself out on the big screen, then her faith would be crushed to a pulp.
Then she would be free of her childish longings and feeble questions. Once the
truth was staring her in the face, she could move on.

Cara flashed back to that night,
maybe two years ago. The night the
Lost
Treasure
project was born. She had been riding in the dark and the rain,
dazed and aimless and empty. She’d staggered out of the hospital and ridden away
with nothing but her bike, some fledgling credibility in film, and a half-share
in a big white elephant of a house. Nothing to lose. She’d already lost
everything that mattered. The blood-soaked pad between her legs attested to
that.

She hadn’t planned to fall
pregnant. Had never seriously considered bearing a child. And certainly not
with Shay, a fun but flaky bass player she’d met on set. But when her period
had been late and the blue strip had confirmed her suspicions, she had
literally jumped for joy, clapping her hands like a kindergartener and singing
and humming her way through the rest of her day. She’d treated herself to a French
manicure and bought herself pink gerberas in celebration.

It didn’t faze her that Shay was
less than thrilled about the news. It didn’t matter to her that Mia was openly
horrified. All that counted was the precious little life growing inside her.
From the instant the tiny being had made her presence known, Cara had loved her
with every dollop of her overflowing heart.

So, the miscarriage was soul
destroying. She’d been choosing booties when she experienced the first cramp,
felt the warm, sticky discharge. She’d known immediately, of course, and had ridden
the six blocks to the emergency room. The procedure had been swift and
clinical. She’d lied and said her husband was waiting outside, so they’d let
her leave. She’d sat in the ladies room until the world stopped spinning and
she could be reasonably sure she wouldn’t throw up in her helmet. Then she
climbed on her red dragon and rode.

She didn’t care about the
wooziness, didn’t care that she was soaked to the skin, didn’t care that she
was shivering so hard she could barely steer. Cara didn’t even know where she
was or where she was going. Her baby was gone. Dead. Lost before she could even
greet her. Loved but never to breathe. The devastation inside Cara was
absolute. A swivel of her hips, she thought, the most minuscule tilt and swerve
and, at this speed, she could guide her dragon straight into a nice big tree
and be free of the terrible pain and loss forever.

In that dreadful moment, she realized
that she was missing something so much bigger than even a fortune and a fetus.
She was missing her mother’s
raison d’etre––
reason
for being. Because if Alessandra had felt for Cara and Mia even a fraction of
what Cara had felt for the little life she had just expelled from her body,
there was no way she could have walked away. Put simply, no treasure on earth
could be more compelling than a mother’s love for her child. Could it?

Sure that she was overlooking some
enormous aspect of her mother’s life, Cara vowed to begin her own treasure
hunt. Never mind the missing fortune, she would find the truth of her mother’s
soul and she would put all the questions to rest, once and for all. But where
to begin?

The urge to put words on paper
floated to the surface of her mind and began to take hold like a delicate water
plant coming into being. The words were clunky at first, the ideas clumsy and
ragged with no sense of flow or direction. Little by little as the months
passed, her work began to converge, and soon she was flying through notebook
pages like a fiend, scouring journals and newspaper clippings, interviewing
strangers. She worked late into each night, transposing her thoughts onto her
computer, shaping them, sculpting them, putting together plans and dialogue and
a killer pitch.

“I wrote the truth as I found it,”
Cara told Levi
. As bitter as it turned
out to be.
“I tried to be impartial, impersonal. I wanted to be as accurate
and objective as I could possibly be. In doing so, I hoped that the truth would
shine through. So far, there’s a glimmer, but I know that during the filming so
much more can emerge. Right now, it’s words on paper. It’s not until those
words come to life on the set that they really come into their own. And often, it’s
not until you’re sitting in a dark theatre, holding hands and eating popcorn,
that you really understand what you’ve created. And what it all means.”

****

While she talked, Levi realized
three things—she was utterly and unwaveringly committed to presenting the truth,
and that could be a problem. She was withholding some important part of her
story and he itched to know what she was hiding. And she was so incredibly
beautiful in her passion and integrity that he was in dire danger of falling
for her.

Chapter
Seven

“You want to do what?” Cara cried.

“Hey, settle down. I’m not the
enemy here. We just need to tweak the script a little...”

He was back at his desk and she was
on her feet pacing the hearth rug. Furious.

“A little? You’re talking about
adding characters that never existed, creating motivations that weren’t there!”
She knew she was being unreasonable, but she couldn’t seem to calm herself. “You’re
talking about changing the key focus of the main character.” Cara couldn’t believe
that after she just poured half her heart out to Levi about the importance of
the truth, he was ripping the other half right out of her chest by turning her
work into some cheap little romance.

“Cara, we’re talking a minor love
interest, that’s all.”

“There was no love interest. Haven’t
you listened to a thing I’ve said? She flirted, she dillied, she dallied, and
she never slept with anyone. The tabloids often put two and two together and
came up with about eleventy billion, but she was like a freaking nun!”

“Look, I understand that this is
painful for you, but this film is not a documentary. It’s a feature. A big,
expensive feature and, as it stands, it’s just not quite compelling enough to
engage—”

Cara could feel the heat in her cheeks,
feel her eyes burning. Her breath was choppy and her pulse was erratic. “So, it’s
all about the money and the box office, is it? I thought you were different. I
thought you gave a shit. But when it comes down to it, when we get to the
bottom line, principles and art and integrity go out the window, so dollars can
come marching through the door.”

She hated the whine in her voice,
hated how precious she sounded, hated the prima donna tone threading its way
through her protests. But she was afraid—frightened he would undo two years of
healing, terrified he would sully the legitimacy of the film.

“Cara, listen to me... I’m a
producer. Of course I want to see the film be a commercial success. Naturally, I’m
looking for a return on my investment. But not at the expense of the film’s veracity.”

“Bullshit. You want love scenes.
Nudity. Sensationalism. You want to tip the balance so that my mother ends up
looking like a greedy slut. You have no interest in the facts. You only care
about the money. Sex sells. Isn’t that what they say?”

“Jeez, Cara, I hardly think taking
a lover turns Alessandra into a slut. It makes no sense that she would go
thirteen years without a man—not without some driving reason. Having her
celibate for the whole film without some first-class incentive is going to
alienate audiences. A love interest humanizes her. You yourself said there was
a lot you still didn’t know about her. How can you know she was chaste the
whole time? It makes more sense to give her a man. We can do it tastefully.”

“There is just no way you can have
her fuck some bloke without her looking cheap. It’s tacky. It’s tawdry. It’s
exactly what Mia was afraid of.”

“It doesn’t have to be tacky. What
about us—you and me—last night? This morning? That was hardly tacky. That was
beautiful.”

“How do I know you weren’t just
screwing me to soften me up for this conversation?” she spat.

“I can’t believe you just said
that. Can you really devalue what we shared that way?”

“There’s nothing to devalue. It was
just a stupid mistake.” She was shouting now. “And you can’t make major changes
without my consent. It’s in my contract.” Stung and battered, she ran from the
room.

****

Levi swiped a hand over his face,
rubbed his eyes, and leaned back in the ergonomic chair with an unhappy sigh. He’d
sure as shit screwed that up, he thought. Cara was right. He couldn’t make
major changes to the script without her consent. But was adding a love interest
a major change? Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to drag through the courts
finding out. He was on a deadline that had nothing to do with production costs.

Cara’s script was the best thing
that had ever crossed his desk. It was as close as anyone could get to a sure
bet when it came to the box office. But it needed to be zsuzsed up to ensure
success—more action, more violence—and more sex.

He thumped his fist down on the
script. Cara was dead right when she said his priority was the money. In fact,
until he had actually met the beautiful and tempestuous writer, the money was
all
he had been focused on.

Maybe if she had stopped shouting
for long enough to hear his point of view, they could have worked something
out. But that would mean actually sharing his perspective, he realized. It
would mean clawing open the past and hauling out all the pain and guilt and
wretchedness. It would mean trawling through his whole miserable history,
parading the shambles of his life in front of Cara, and emasculating himself in
the process.

He ran a hand roughly through his
hair.

Hell, if that’s what it took, that’s
what he would do. This movie needed to happen. It needed to happen his way. And
it needed to happen now.

****

The smell of baking bread finally
lured her to the back kitchen. It seemed Levi was quite the cook.

“Just because we disagree about the
movie, it doesn’t mean we can’t eat together,” he told her evenly, indicating
the two places set at the table. “Please. Sit. Red or white?”

Tentatively, she took a seat,
admiring the way he’d laid the table. He’d dredged up a crisp white linen cloth
and clearly troubled himself to iron it. He’d found some pink candles and blown
glass candle holders. Even with mismatched silverware and shonky vinyl chairs,
the setting was delightful. There were fresh flowers floating in a crystal bowl
as a centerpiece.

“You’ve gone to so much trouble...”

“Cooking always soothes my soul.
Some men race cars, others play golf. Call me a metrosexual, but I bake. I hope
you like lamb.”

“I love lamb.”

“The cab sav will probably set off
the meal the best, but there’s a pinot gris chilling if you’d prefer.”

“The red is fine.”

The ritual of dining played out so
easily that the customs of good manners and the traditions of eating together
were somehow spinning a delicate truce between them. She noticed the music—something
dreamy and classical from the ancient transistor on the window sill. And the
rich aroma of herbs and meat when he opened the oven infused the whole space
with a warmth and hominess that transported her, for a moment, back to the
safety and security of childhood.

There was something seductively
easeful about Levi, she thought, and immediately forced herself to sit
straighter in her chair and raise her guard. The coziness and care he emanated
were beguiling and she would do well to resist the charm of the comfortable ambiance
he’d created and the soulful eyes promising serenity and security—and veiling a
mercenary heart, she reminded herself.

But it was difficult to think
clearly with all her senses indulged. The lamb was melt-in-her-mouth tender,
served with baby vegetables and aromatic herb bread he had baked from scratch.
He was right about the wine—it complemented the lavish gravy perfectly. And to
top it all off, he’d concocted a fresh pear tart, almost too beautiful to eat,
and he served the dessert with a splash of bitter chocolate sauce.

Most potent and bewitching of all
was the compelling company of Levi Callister.

“You must have been really stressed
to need that much soothing.” She sighed, leaning back in her chair and patting
her overstuffed tummy. “That was divine. You should run a restaurant.”

“I did for a while. I’ve also owned
a radio station, raced horses, dabbled in pharmaceuticals—the legal kind—set up
a shipping firm, and tried stockbroking...among other things.”

“Wow. And all I’ve done is write
movies.”

“I envy you that passion and
certainty,” he confessed. “I am always looking to the next thing—the next
trend, the next project…”

The
next lover,
Cara thought, reflecting on his reputation in the
tabloids as a ladies’ man.

“Before I’ve even wound up the current
big thing, I’m already peeking ahead to see what’s next. It’s as though nothing
quite satisfies me. Some things get close, but nothing totally fills the hole.
Like I’m hungry for some sort of fulfilment I can never get.”

“That sounds really sad.” Her mind
flicked over the emptiness of her own maverick life where making films was the
only real substance and wondered if he wasn’t better off than she was. At least
he had a base—property, a business, a loving normal family.

He shrugged. “I guess I’m just
waiting for something to light me up the way writing lights you up. Something
worthy of my passion. Something that will hold my attention for longer than a
year or two.”

“Do you believe that something is
out there?”

“I have to believe it. Otherwise,
what’s the point?”

For a moment, he was quiet, smiling
inwardly as though remembering some happier time or wistfully projecting a
happier future. He looked stunning, she thought. Like every male fantasy she’d
ever had rolled into one gorgeous, sensuous man. She wanted him despite
everything. She craved the touch and taste of him, longed to feel his skin scorched
against hers, ached for the pleasures his sumptuous mouth promised. Would she
really risk the integrity of her film for another night with Levi? Would she
really throw caution to the wind and chance everything on this devilishly sexy
man? She swallowed thickly and tried to drag her eyes away from his contemplative
form.

Then the radio crackled and the
lights flickered and he came back to her.

“I gave Brian Shepherd a call this
afternoon,” Levi said, changing the subject and interrupting the tension
building inside her. “The road’s totally impassable. He offered to come over by
launch and make sure we’re okay. The forecast is for the rain to ease
overnight, though, so I told him we’d be okay…marooned…together…alone…” He
waggled his eyebrows in mock suggestion and she rolled her eyes, her heart frisking.

“Just because I agreed to eat with
you doesn’t mean I want to do anything else with you,” she said. But what had
been intended as a sarcastic snap sounded throaty and wistful. She averted her
eyes so he wouldn’t see the flicker of desire.

“I reckon the water level will have
dropped enough tomorrow that we won’t be stranded here any longer. Selena and Otto,
plus the set crew, are holed up in Ocean Ridge waiting for the weather to
abate. Once the road is clear, they’ll come over the isthmus. I’m guessing it’s
our last night on our own.”

He tried to keep his tone light,
struggled to keep the longing out of his voice, but she heard his desire and
there was no denying the answering yearning in herself. Despite their
differences, she wanted him. With the internal admission, her breath caught,
her heartbeat kicked up a notch, her breasts tingled, and her sex flushed with
warmth.

No!
her
inner voice objected. He was the enemy. He was trying to ruin her film for the
sake of a few bucks. It was like dealing with Alessandra all over again, but
with sexual desire thrown in as an extra complication. The attraction she felt
was nothing but animal lust, primal chemistry. She was a civilized, intelligent
woman.
 
She could override these base
urges. She could!

Gently, he reached across the table
and lifted her fingers in his. The touch was like a hundred and twenty volts
applied directly to her libido. Her skin hummed, her cheeks burned, and her
body purred with wanting him.

Her eyes met his, wondering what
lay behind the dancing candle flames reflected there.

“Dance with me?” His request was a
soft plea and, before she could stop herself, she nodded her acquiescence. It
was just a dance, she told herself.

He stood, keeping hold of her hand,
and drew her to her feet. The music was something smooth and orchestral, and he
when he pulled her against him, he was already moving to the sensuous rhythm.

“I know we have our differences
about the film right now,” he said softly. “But I really like you, Cara. And I
like the way you fit against me.”

His words brought her awareness to
all the places they touched. Palms, chests, hips, thighs...
 
Her skin was alive with the feel of him
brushing against her. Her muscles delighted in their tandem sway and swirl.

“I like you, too, Levi,” she
husked.

The song segued in to something
slower, more longing, and she found her eyes drifting closed, her head nestling
against his shoulder, nose pressing into the scent of him. She felt the rasp of
his unshaven cheek against her own tender flesh, the firm press of his hand in
the small of her back, and his swelling arousal at her groin.

His fingers gentled her chin and
nudged her face toward his own.

“I want to kiss you,” he told her.
His eyes were all smoldering desire, his voice a wayward assurance.

“We probably need to talk before
there’s any kissing,” she ventured, trying to be rational despite the delicious
feel of his hands now rubbing suggestively and rhythmically over her hips. She
turned in his arms and drew away from him, hoping a little distance would bring
her to her senses.